


Weather House

by HybridKylin



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Disassociation, Gen, Redswap, Redswap AU, Suicidal Ideation, actual suicide, ahahahahahaahaha, and bodysharing consent issues, and references to attempted suicide, basically this is angst involving Chara that's all that needs to be said really, buckle up we're going on a genocide ride, can they?, don't let the tags fool you it's soft Chara guys, increasing dehumanisation, jesus every time I update this the tags get worse, oh hello there gore and emetophobia warnings, oh shoot i never specifically specified self harm but it's in there, oh yeah there's a little bit of eye squick, okay so there is murder in this, on the plus side things can't get any worse than the absolute destruction of everything ever, self indulgent steven universe reference, unintentional gaslighting, whoops looks like I forgot to add implied child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HybridKylin/pseuds/HybridKylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk is the first, and Chara the eighth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fever

You wake up on a bed of golden flowers, and you don’t know why you’re alive. Your plan failed. Why are you still here?

You get up, pollen falling off you, and examine yourself. Only a few scratches, at most. You aren’t sure if you feel relieved or disappointed. You start forward, curious about this place you’ve found yourself in that isn’t at all like you thought the bottom of a pit on a lethal mountain would be, and your confusion continues to fail to abate.

You don’t know why there’s a talking flower. You don’t know why it attacks you. You don’t know why the monsters of the old stories exist, albeit friendlier. You don’t know why you know more about them than you really think you should. You feel lost, unanchored.

You travel through the Ruins, becoming more confident, exploring, taking your time, messing around with leaves and candy. Monsters attack, but each has a trick to letting you pass, despite injury. Things are going well until you are killed by a ghost. It feels like there’s a cruel irony in there somewhere.

You wake up next to cheese. The next time, you attack the ghost before it can kill you… again?, and only wind up even more confused. _Negative_ experience? What in the.

You don’t attack again in the Ruins. You don’t die again in the Ruins either, but it’s close. Uncomfortably close. Dying is painful, but the tradeoff for that is supposed to be cessation, not a voice telling you not to give up and a boot back to existence.

At some point you start to wonder if this is an extremely strange afterlife. Certainly, Toriel’s home is the home you’ve always dreamed of. You wish to stay forever, or at least to the end of your lifespan, but something itches under your skin, pushing you forward, whispering, and before you’re fully aware of it she’s rushing from the room like something’s on fire.

You follow after, not feeling entirely in control of your legs, and very soon _you’re_ on fire. You’re burning with anger and betrayal in addition to magical flames, and you raise your weapon to strike, because of _course_ it was too good to be true. Of _course_ it was just like it always is, what did you expect?

You plunge your stick into her midriff. What? You didn’t do that? Your eyes widen. Your hand has halted itself halfway to her and putting all your force into trying to complete the motion only causes it to waver.

Your hand, against your orders, drops the stick.

* * *

 

Snowdin is a constant struggle. Your body shambles, stumbling, pulling against your horrified, angry attempts to halt it. When raw force doesn’t work, you start fighting smarter, not harder, biding your time and tripping whatever force is controlling it into snowdrifts at every possible opportunity. You discover the pain of the fall itself becomes muted and distant if you pull back the moment before you hit, but each time you do the other gets more of a foothold.

Pretty soon, your sweater is soaked, and you’re shivering from more than just this unknown war. It’s noticed.

*hey kid you’re uh  
*not looking so hot  
*go on right ahead, take a break for a bit

Your body nods, gratefully, and lurches forward. You seethe. The world flickers, and then suddenly you’re in a house you’ve never seen before. From the way your head turns back and forth, _it_ has never seen it before, either.

_*They_

You don’t care. You want your body back. _They_ steer it over to a red couch, and sit, tapping your toes together.

“This is nice,” your mouth says, of a couch filled with more lumps than the surface of the moon. They giggle at that thought of yours. You hate them. Your body has stopped shivering; even subdued as you are, you can feel the temperature difference. You repeat; you want it back. Your face pulls into a frown.

“But you’ll hurt people with it.”

They’re trying to hurt _you_. To kill you.

“That doesn’t mean you should do the same.”

You slam yourself desperately against the hold they have on you. It feels like slamming your head into a brick wall.

* * *

 

In Waterfall, you stop fighting entirely, and just watch, a spectator to your many deaths, mostly at the hands of Undyne. Eventually you can’t take it anymore, and suggest they run. They send gratitude at you when it works. You weakly send hate back, and it bounces off.

* * *

 

You honestly don’t remember much of Hotland, beyond inescapable, saharic _heat_ and… hotdogs?

* * *

 

The next time you surface, it’s faintly, hazily. A delayed, molassic response to a sudden intense pain that punctured even through this hibernation.

“You’re not really Frisk, are you? Frisk’s been gone a long time.”

Yes, you want to say, try automatically. “Asriel, it’s me. I _am_ Frisk.” That wasn’t what you meant to say at all. That’s not your name at all. Your name is… you can’t remember. You feel like you should be panicking more about that, but everything about you is so fuzzy…

You realise what’s happening to you. Oh. Well. Maybe it’s for the best. You wanted to disappear, didn’t you? You feel _Frisk’s_ attention turn in towards you, feel their sudden horror. You manage to coalesce some spite as you feel them reach out for you, try to pull you together about as effectively as holding smoke. _Have fun_ , you think. They can _have_ your shitty life. Maybe they’d be better at it.

You let go, despite their pleading.

* * *

 

You wake up on a bed of golden flowers, and your identity rushes into you with the force of a breaking dam, and you gasp and bolt upright and roll over, coughing.

Wait. You did those things. You can _move_.

You search, and find the other’s presence curled up in a ball at the back of your mind, radiating guilt and shame. They don’t meet your non-existent gaze. You stand up, and brush yourself off.

You attack the flower before it can even get a word out. It laughs at you, and rings you with bullets. You know how powerful the old goat is and decide to leave her for later. You attack the dummy in front of her, sending stuffing everywhere, and a Froggit behind her back. The other is horrified, but you can push them back.

The more you kill, the more you can. Their voice doesn’t get any less loud, in fact if anything it gets louder, what with the yelling at you, but you find you can tune it out more and more. Unimportant words.

When you are left to your own devices, you really get going. Your initial frantic, sickened, desperate energy turns into something more calm, methodical. You feel safer. You drag your stick along purple walls to sharpen it and call _come out come out where-ever you are_.

They beg you to spare even just one. You ignore them. You’re not falling for that again. Never again.

You stand in front of a mirror, covered in dust, still holding a stake, and look at your reflection, red eyes and green striped sweater, and smile.

“It’s me, Chara.”  
  
_*This isn’t you!_

Your eyes slide down the hallway towards the living room. One left.

In the back of your mind, there’s a sob.


	2. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Area cleared. None remain.

You had blessed silence for all of ten minutes.

 

The voice in your head shut up after you killed the old goat. It didn’t speak when the flower rambled at you about unimportant things, even when you swiped at it with the plastic knife when it called you _Frisk_ because that’s. Not. Who. You. Are. 

_Miss._

Naturally. You are sure you’ll get a more proper opportunity later. It cannot burrow away if you uproot it, perhaps.

 

There’s not a peep out of it as you refuse to play along with the skeletons. You harbour a resentment for the blue one, even if you’re aware it’s irrational, because he helped _them_ and did nothing for you. You don’t care for him messing with you and the red one with a lamp. 

Once the red one leaves, the blue one asks you to pretend to be human. You aren’t sure why you’re apparently _not_ all of a sudden, but you’re okay with it. Being human is vastly overrated, and besides, you’re feeling contrary today.

 

You run into a strange bird. A snowy plowver. For a second you think that’s the voice talking, but no, it was you. You cock your head, listening. Perhaps the voice is gone. Perhaps this is enough. Perhaps you’re safe. You watch, a little unimpressed, as cresents sing by your SOUL and the plowver makes you embarrassed on behalf of all pun lovers. 

_*Their name is Snowdrake…_

Looks like you were wrong. Maybe a little more, then. 

_*No!_

_*Please!_

_*I’m sorry! Just stop!_

You can’t stop until you’re safe. And you can’t be safe while that _thing_ lives in your head, while someone can control you other than you, while monsters are still trying to kill you. The plowver’s dust dissipates on the wind and you pause to examine a box. You vaguely remember what it is and what it does and what you’ll find in it; you were rather preoccupied the first time around. 

You flex your fingers. The glove settles on them nicely. A perfect fit.

 

Puzzles don’t interest you. Dogs don’t interest you. You know you usually like both those things but at the moment the thought of them doesn’t spark anything in you, which would be concerning if you cared more. You eat a snowman, leaving a pile of useless snow. On a whim, you kick the Sanspoff to pieces. It makes you feel a little better. 

…the town seems emptier than you recall it being. Strange, but pleasant. You think of stealing from the shop but… no. No reason to. This seems to surprise the voice. 

_*You’re hurt._

_*At least take a cinnabun…_

You very pointedly ignore it. There’s a note on the counter. You examine it. 

‘Please don’t hurt my family.’ 

The voice squirms. You just stare at it blankly. You place the note back on the counter and leave. There’s nothing left in the town for you.

 

A mist comes up as you approach the red skeleton blocking the way. Idly you wonder if it conjures it to seem dramatic; that’s probably within the abilities of monsters, right? 

_*Um. Maybe?_

Shut _up_. Go _away_. It was a rhetorical question. You tell the voice its opinion has no value whatsoever. Hurt and resentment flares at you. Good. 

_*I have a_ name. 

You literally could not care less. So do you. You are Chara, and no one else. 

…you realise you’ve just been standing there while the skeleton has been talking at you. Oh well. It probably wasn’t anything interesting anyway. You take a step forward. The skeleton calls you a weirdo. You feel like laughing. It has _no_ idea. 

You step forward again. It makes no move to stop you. Odd. You would have thought a FIGHT would have started by… ah, there it is. Here we go. 

_*Here_ you _go._

You think you like the sniping, angry version of the voice better. At least it’s being honest. At least it isn’t being a _hypocrite_. It has nothing to say in response to this. 

…perhaps it could be useful. You don’t even need to ask; as soon as the intent is forming it jumps on it. Maybe a little too eagerly for your liking; it doesn’t take being stuck like this to know it’s relieved you’re choosing something _other_ than immediately smacking the face off this skeleton. It only makes you want to do that more. 

_*The Great Papyrus_

_*Too good for this world, too pure_

_*…doesn’t want to hurt you._

You’ve heard _that_ before. Doesn’t want to hurt you, but it’s for your own good. Doesn’t want to hurt you, but you brought it on yourself. Doesn’t want to hurt you, but you’re leaving no choice. Intent, it seems, is utterly worthless. 

_*…_

Would it have killed them to give actual numbers!? Even an estimate! 

_*How would I know those._

The undercurrent being _oh now you want my help._ Fine, it’s right. Or rather, wrong. You don’t want it’s help, you don’t need it’s help. You neither want nor need _it_ , period. You doubt anyone has ever wanted or needed it, and feel that hit a nerve as it withdraws. Smelling weakness, you mentally chase after it. You tell it it’s worthless, and should leave you alone, and just disappear already and go…

…climb a mountain.

 

You decide it’s a better use of your time to focus on the battle at hand. 

But… there isn’t one. The skeleton is just standing there, holding its arms open.

You have the distinct feeling you missed something. You wait patiently for it to attack but… it isn’t. Still holding there, trembling. You stare deep into its sockets. It seems concerned by this. Two can play at this game. You won’t let down your guard at all. You wonder if it’s arms are starting to get tired, but then again. Skeleton. 

Minutes pass. You occasionally shiver. The fog is clinging to the wool of your sweater and your skin and leaving moist droplets that suck the heat from your body. Occasionally, the skeleton will offer short, meaningless encouragements. Occasionally you get the distinct sensation the voice is intending to say something and then deciding against it. Otherwise, it is silent, a fact you would appreciate more if you weren’t so _cold_ all of a sudden. 

Eventually, and delicately, like someone carefully choosing their footing on unknown ice, the voice speaks up. 

_*Papyrus is sparing you._

That’s the most hilarious thing you’ve heard from it yet. There hasn’t been a single monster that hasn’t attacked you. It’s only a matter of time, the moment you show an opening. You hate the flower, but it’s philosophy is sound. 

You know how vulnerable they are when being spared… how vulnerable _you_ would be. But you can’t maintain the standoff forever, not unless you want a white death. 

Suddenly, ever since those previous, unspoken events, you have been _burning_ with a desire to _live_ that surprises you. A clarity, like the rush of adrenalin of having pulled out of a dive at the very last second. You will _ live _ , and you will live as _you_ , if for no other reason other than to sheerly spite any who’d try otherwise _._ It might not last, this kindled flame, you think it probably won’t, but while it burns it _consumes._

You step closer to Papyrus, and drop the glove into the snow, and your hand hates you for it as the icy mist takes the opportunity to nip at it. He seems relieved, and you can feel the other presence perk up in hopeful anticipation, but you don’t stop there. You take out your sharpened stick. You can feel the rough grain of the wood even in numb fingers cold-curled into claws. This is _yours_. 

Another step. You’re close enough to touch the skeleton, and vice versa. He makes no move to. It looks like the arms of skeletons really don’t get tired. Idly, slowly, you lightly place the edge of the stick on the side of his upper armor. Useless stuff. A small wooden stick fuelled by you would simply tear through it like the paper it looks to be. You can visibly see him fight down a cringe, and it fills you with… satisfaction. He won’t try anything now. Not while this vulnerable. Entirely at your mercy, if you have any. You smile up at him. He valiantly returns it. 

It would be so easy. To swipe it upwards and across. In one movement. 

_*no no no no no no_

It has been muttering this ever since you took out the stick. It increased in volume when you laid your weapon paradoxically softly on him, and increased again as you tilted your head to consider. Anger fills you. You wish it would just _shut. UP!_

 

The next thing you see is the skeleton’s dust settling around you and on your shoulders and in your hair like a last affection gently falling snow. You don’t remember striking, but you must have, because dust is all over the stick your shaking fist is clenched around so tight it hurts, in little ridges that drift off under the vibration like icing sugar. 

Horror and a sort of sick feeling in the pit of your gut slams into you like a sea wave, dashing you against broken rocks and then dragging you out while you scrabble for purchase on edges that tear your hands and call out to those who simply turn away. You don’t quite feel attached to it. You decide it must belong to the voice, which is yelling at you again. 

_*HE WAS SPARING YOU._

You don’t see how this matters. Unimportant. Just like the skeleton. Ha. Ha ha. You step through the dust and head on. There’s still threats left. The thought, strangely, fills you with a sort of excited anticipation.

 

The mist is dissipating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait, there's more!


	3. Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallen child cuts a swathe through Waterfall.

You are soaking. You feel the sensation of shivering, yet you do not feel cold. A drop of water lands, ignored, on the back of your neck. The white powder covering you is powder no more. It has turned into a thick, viscous sludge. It clings. Only where your trousers have waded has it been washed off.

You are on a bridge.

 _*Please!_

There is noise. Rushing water and rain on stone make a sound like static. 

_*Please, stop!_

_*I… I was wrong, okay! I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry._

Yet more noise. Irritating. Irrelevant. You tilt your head. You change direction. You pad silently across blue stone. 

_*Taking over you was wrong and I’m sorry and I’ll never do it again if you just stop PLEASE_

Of course. Your parasite listens to you now because now you hold power. It will taste its own medicine. The promises it makes are empty because it will do anything to once more be in control. 

_*I’m not…_

You hum. It echoes. There is a response. You hum again. Something is drawn out, despite itself. A hooded figure watches from afar.

 

You dust off the tutu. This only succeeds in smearing it. It is difficult to tell it was once blue.

 

You do not remember Waterfall well. Your memories are a general impression of black and glowing blue water and darker stone and the spears you aim to avoid. You do not remember the pathways. You must backtrack frequently. Your parasite is of no help. It has even given erroneous directions to stymie you. Yet more reason to distrust it. 

Even now, your mind fails you. The area is timeless. Cause and effect and order don’t matter; impression remains. Progress. Dust. Waterfall is still endless black and blue and crystal and room after room and a piano that you slam you hand down on and slide across as you walk by in a harsh crescendo, and a statue at which you remember silence and you swipe a lily white streak across its stony face as you pass. 

_*I hate you._

You are worthy of hate. Hate, you think, is honest. 

The old monster hates you too. He makes no pretense otherwise. He’s probably so proud of himself, for stalling. You don’t care about that. Monsters that _evacuate_ are no longer dangers. Do not count. You leave him. You will seek out other sources of strength.

 

A loud dummy attacks. That will do.

 

There is a small monster that keeps running around you. It is irritating. You are constantly fighting the urge to kick it. You wish to be _alone._ You wish it to be _quiet_ . However, it is useful. And it has never hurt you. Never even tried. Even if _it_ yells uselessly and soundlessly at the small monster to get away from you, like _it_ has any right. Like it is _friends_ with the thing. 

Still. Not a threat. No reason to kill it. For now, you move on.

 

 _It_ whispers to you. Constantly. Its words are low and angry and jittering, but you tune them out. There is the occasional shaky inhale from a thing with no mouth. And when you fell… 

_*Frisk, huh? That’s a nice name._

You want. So badly. To Just. Take your weapon. And stick it point first in your eye socket and hope to hit that leech as you push it deeper into your brain. It is a vivid want. So vivid, you think you must have done it until you realise there is no blood. Your hands shake around the grain. They have not left the weapon since the snow. You are sure they should be feeling pain. 

You don’t do it.

 

You are on a bridge.

 

The little monster is back. It is fighting you. It is _in your way_. A dull anger smoulders in you. Not hot enough to be betrayal. Not close enough. You strike at it full force. It will strengthen you. 

You do not hit it. You are very much not prepared for what happens next. For the first time since you retook control, you die. And die. And die and die and _die and die and die_. You cannot stop. You cannot stay dead.

 

So much for avoiding these spears.

 

You lie, boneless, on the ground near the save point. Water laps at you. This isn’t working. You cannot win this way. Perhaps…

You still remember how to ‘spare’ her. It was, after all, your suggestion. You wonder if.

_*Run._

Yes. And when she collapses. An easy kill.

_*No!_

 

The notebook, this time. You need some invincibility.

 

You stand up and walk. A long, long, way. You tune out the inane babble of the little monster, and strike at it almost lazily, and pay no attention to the heroine’s monologue. Your lips move soundlessly along with it, ticking down the seconds. You are not looking for these words.

You are looking for the flash of blue. _There_.

Up. Up. Left. Left. Right. Down. Reverse. More. More and more. This pattern is burned into you.

Green. Red. _Now._

You take the opening. You move to race past her. She blocks the way so well this will require the utmost timing. Your breath comes harshly.

Your legs tangle around themselves. Your chin slams down on the blue stone on the other side of the bridge. You desperately push up with your arms to _get up, get up_. Your legs feel dead. Numb. Useless weights. All you manage to do is turn your head to see the heroine turned towards you. Eye flashing, spear in hand. Probably yelling something about cowardice.

You scrabble forward anyway. You leave blood on the stone. Red lines from your fingers. White from your nails. You can’t drag yourself fast enough.

The pain is excruciating. As always. The last thing you see is the point of the spear emerge from your chest to shatter your soul.

You waken to a voice you have never heard before and shakily stand up.

It is. Genuinely hard to feel fury now. You make the effort. _That_ _thing_ _._ You throw up into the water, into your reflection. You wipe the strands from your mouth.

You can feel it. It is not sorry at all. It is a ball of defiance and determination. With what little power it has… it will stop you running. You laugh, a short sharp bark of a sound.

So much for being wrong. A little burst of memory. A sing-song. _I was right and you were wrong._ It is uncomfortable, but does not budge. Fine. You’ve come this far without its help. You will go farther with its hindrance.

You face danger head on. You die and you die and you die and it becomes so monotonous you only realise you have struck the final blow when

she

melts.

She. Melts.

Slowly.

She is fighting to stay alive every inch. And then, lets go.

You consider. What this might mean. All of this. Why.

_*Determination._

 

It is a horrified whisper. You snap your teeth together and bite your tongue. Emulate you, thing. The wind howls a last time and dies to dead air.

You search for the little monster until you lose interest, and then you step forward into the mouth of hell.


	4. Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has a bad time.

Hell is lava and boiling rock and a long monotonous droning in your head. You are not sure if that is the  _ thing _ . It doesn’t matter. You cannot be distracted from this.

The heat is baking the sludge on you to ceramic. It cracks and crackles as your joints move, in time with the omnipresent fire. An uncomfortable sensation. It does not slow you down, so you bear it.

You realise you cannot remember why you are doing this when you cleave a torch-wick in half.

That doesn’t matter either.

You are a force of nature, now. The monsters run from you like you are an advancing glacier. Inexorable. You cannot stop. It must have been a good reason. Nobody kills without a good reason. Perhaps you will find out when this is complete.

_ *The reason is you’re having a tantrum. _

Dry as your thick tongue and as bitter as the dust coating it. Yes. You remember.

The machinery groans and churns around you, illuminated by heat. You are filled with  _ s p i t e. _

 

You look at yourself on a screen. Your auburn hair and pale skin and green and yellow sweater are obscured by alabaster. It’s you? You cannot tell. A blank slate. Anything could scribble in a colour.

You attempt to smash it, again and again, and only succeed in splitting your knuckles open. A spiderweb of cracks is all there is to show for this. Stupid. Waste of time. Kind of like you!  You lick the blood from your hand. Acrid, tannic dust mingles with ferric salt.

The taste is muted, distant. The pain is even further removed.

You pass a bag of dog food, and there’s a strange, repeating noise. Almost like the clicks of a FIGHT. Adrenalin floods you and you tense, ready. You don’t realise it did not exist until.

* _ It’s… funny. _

_ *… _

Laughter. You wonder if you could cave in your skull. If you smashed it against that screen hard enough.

You do not. You send two lovers to another circle of hell, instead. You squish a spider.

Glitter pens in an alleyway. You rip the paper to shreds and chew them. Spit them out.

They tasted better than dust.

No HP gained. Useless. Why did you do that.

You move on.

 

Lasers block the way. Blue. They cannot be passed. This is good. They cannot reach you either. And your way out is still open.

(Your way out.

Is leaving what you’re doing here?

Irrelevant. You know what your goal is.

To become strong. Nothing else matters.)

A robot has been annoying you. One strike, and it falls. You feel vaguely dissatisfied. Against all reason. Many have done the same. Onwards. The heat fades to a tomblike citadel. Footsteps echo in empty halls.

There is a tree, in a courtyard. You feel like you have seen it before, but you do not recall its name.

_ *It’s yew. _

 

There is a room. It looks like one you slept in. When you desired to sleep there. There are… differences. Two spaces where there was one.

*…

For each there is one, neatly wrapped, gift. Offerings. You are an unappeasable thing. But there might still be things of use in them.

A locket. Some armor, by your estimation. Better than what you currently have. You slip it on. Gold lies cool against your neck. Etched words under your fingertips. Meaningless.

Something in you breaks, and  _ burns _ .

_ *Not yours. _

A knife. It is time-worn and well-loved. The shine is dull, mottled. There is a beauty in it. You run your fingers over the edge. Not sharp enough to carve lines in flesh. Plants and vines, perhaps. You have just the weed in mind.

_ *Never yours. _

Neither needs to be. You weren’t theirs, and you were put to purpose. As these will be. Red shines in them, fills them with resentful glow. It takes poorly, but well enough.

You are filled with determjnation. No space for anything else.

You step over a chain.

 

You find the weed. It asks if you like the gifts. You keep walking. It keeps talking. You barely listen. What it says has no bearing on you. Its repetitive presence aggravates you. The voice-thing feels… like it’s reaching for something. Trying to feel something. But nothing comes.

The weed has a realisation. There is a spark of satisfaction in you. You approach it. Its voice is laced with consternation and fear. That smug slickness you wanted to wipe away is gone. You stab at it, but it ducks and vanishes. A hiss of air. Next time.

Gold. The sound of birds.

The blue one is here. Your lips try to peel back from already exposed teeth. It is talking at you. You step forward.

The blue one had threatened you. You had paid no mind. Never been a true threat. Shouldn’t you have learnt your lesson, about that?  _ Everyone can be cruel _ .

This cruelty is death by bones. By poison. By gravity. By lasers. Self-inflicted.

_ *Gasterblasters. _

 

The blue one is cornered. So are you. Cornered things are dangerous. Check.

_ *Sans _

_ *1 HP. 1ATK. 1DEF. _

_ *How long can you endure? _

Forever, if you have to. You are a thing of pure determination. You are incapable of anything other than progression. Than increasing your strength. It doesn’t matter how. It doesn’t matter why. Nothing can succeed in stopping you.

…the blue one succeeds in  _ delaying _ you. Many, many times.

It offers rest. It offers kindness. You have learnt your lesson. It offers a lie. You know it. You  _ know  _ it.

You kill it. It drips red red _red red_ _red_

Red on your hands. Smells like ketchup. Smells like blood. Smells like dust and bones. Smells like failure.

Why are they shaking?

 

Forward.  _ Forward. _ More gold. More birds. The tall monster smiles at you. Asks you what kind of monster you are. You feel nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing about nothing. You attack. You want what’s behind it.

What’s behind it solves your problem for you.

It pleads.

**_*Don’t._ **

A scrabbling at you. Effortless, to fend it off.

“I.” Your voice sounds alien.

“Am.” Rusty and jagged.

“Not.” Crackling like the casing on you.

“ _ Frisk. _ ” Is it yours?

“My.” It snarls.

“Name.” Flanges.

“Is.” And.

“ _ C h a r a _ _. _ ”  _ Breaks.               _

__

Breathing. Yours. Nothing else here. Nothing. Nothing. Torn petals. A ripped up stem. A cough. Dust. You are finally safe. You have reached the absolute.

There is a howl.

Nothing. Except you.

And…

There is nothing here left for you.

That driving fire gutters and dies.

You think about the knife.

You do it.

 

You do more damage to yourself than you have done to anything else, in the end.


	5. It Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you think it was over? They did too.

You wake.

You thought you’d made that impossible.

The wind is howling. In a way, it is soothing.

You stay curled up. You do not open your eyes. You seek sleep.

You have blessed silence for all of ten minutes.

 

“Chara.”

 

Your name. Being called. Come when you’re called, Chara, there’s a good…

There’s a good demon. Monster. Un-natural thing. Hell-eyes. Changeling.

You refuse.

“ _ Chara. _ ”

You curl up tighter. Go away.

 

A hand on your shoulder. You expect the touch. You expect the pain. You wrench it and sink teeth into flesh. It tries to pull away. You hold tight. It quivers, but ceases. Now, the pain. But at least it will come with satisfaction.

“Chara.”

None. This is not necessarily good.

“Go away,” you mutter. You fling it away from you, and get to your haunches. Your head is dipped, fringe over your face. You can jump away if you need to.

“Don’t you think,” says the voice, wryly. “That if I could I already would’ve?”

 

You, reluctantly, look up.

They look different. You’re not sure what you expected, if you are to be honest with yourself. You realise they were alive, once. That was harder to think of when they were not tangible, in front of you.

They stand, a hand outstretched to you. You can see your bite marks in it. You do not take it, and it drops.

They sit. Just out of easy reach, their legs folded under them. Their face is impassive.

“What now?” they say, as if remarking on an itinerary.

“Nothing,” you mumble. You mean that. Nothing but blackness and wind, forever. It seems even dying isn’t death. Singing the song that ends the world isn’t death.

You stand. Having height on them… you think you could take them in a fight.

You’re tired of fighting.

 

“You could go back,” they suggest. It’s attempted to be pitched neutrally, but there is hope buried in there.

“…what are we even standing on,” you say instead of answering. You stamp the ground you can’t see with a foot, and receive a sore foot.

Frisk shrugs. It’s… such a strange, expressive, out-of-place movement that you snort despite yourself. The corner of their mouth twitches, before falling seriously.

“You could,” they insist. “You did it before.”

“That was you.” The memory rankles. You were barely anything at that point. It was either their doing, or your dissolution’s. They shake their head, bangs flying.

 

“I killed everyone you cared about,” you tell them bluntly. Sins crawl. “I doubt you would care for a repeat performance.”

“It wouldn’t happen again,” they say firmly, and there’s an undercurrent of steel wire in their words. “ _ I wouldn’t let you _ .”

“Then here we stay,” you begin pacing. The expanse does not change at all. You are sick of being controlled, in one way or another. Frisk hums. You didn’t see them get up, but there they are, keeping pace with you. You scratch at your upper arms, up and down through your sweater.

“Well,” they say. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”

You shoot them a look.

 

“I have cute company,” they say, and you kick at them. They step away easily. Miss.

“ _ I’ve killed people, _ ” you say, low. It’s starting to sink in just how many. You really are a demon.

“So have I,” they say, not missing a beat. You search for deception in their face. You don’t find any.

“People you loved.” You know they loved Toriel at least. Thinking back, not all of the warmth suffusing your heart was yours.

“So have I.” It’s said with a bright, brittle kind of nonchalance you are intimately familiar with.

“I enjoyed it.” You throw the words in their face. You wish to shatter their misplaced serenity. It infuriates you for reasons you can’t explain.

“You didn’t.” In response to something unknown on your face, they continue. “I was  _ there, _ Chara.”

You want to snatch your name from their mouth and crush it, just so they can’t use it anymore. Instead, you stop walking, and sink down to sit. They stay standing.

 

“Why,” you say, dully. “Are you so… fine with this.” They shouldn’t be feeling nothing. All of the nothing you had hoarded seems to have spilled out of you and around you like black ink. There should be fury. There should be disgust. There always is. “You hate me.”

“I do,” they say evenly. Ah, there it is; a little too evenly. This is their smile. The things you expect lie behind it. They, too, sit. Crosslegged, before you. “But does hating you really do anything, in the end? It couldn’t stop you. If I can forgive Asriel for what he’d done…”

“Who?” You pick at your already frayed sweater.

Their face twists in some remembered pain. “My brother.” A topic unwanted, from the haste in the words. “If I can forgive him, I can forgive you too. Probably.” The last word is more of a comfort than the entirety of the rest. It shows that they  _ don’t. _

“And besides,” they continue. “What you did… that can be undone.”

“And yet it will not,” you say, cold. “Does that alter your verdict?”

“No.” They don’t really believe you, then.

 

Silence passes, for a while. There’s nothing to give any sense of time here. You look up from your nails at the crinkling of a wrapper. Frisk notices your glance, pausing in wrestling with the packet and holding it out.

“Do you want some popato chisps?”

You don’t feel hungry. “Don’t you mean pota-” You take it from them, and see the emblazoned lettering. Oh. Well then. They’re smirking a bit, ducking their head to try and hide it.

You hold the popatoes, fingers curling in the packaging. You don’t eat them. You don’t know where they came from.

“What are you hoping to achieve here,” you say eventually, in the flattest of tones. “Are you attempting to find the correct sequence of actions to make I, Chara, your humble servant, as you are so fond of doing?” This seems to take them by surprise.

“Is… that why you thought I did all that?” They sound somewhat distressed. What other reason? Smile, laugh, be nice, be cute, find the right thing to do, and people will stop harming you. People will do what you want. That’s not you, anymore. “I  _ like  _ helping people. Even if they weren’t after my soul I’d still…”

 

You throw the chisps at them. They make a poor weapon. You only succeed in covering them in chisps. This angers you. You are on your feet, fists shaking by your sides.  You don’t remember getting to them. They cringe. You feel hot bile in the back of your throat.

“ _ Your _ soul?” It is, perhaps, impressive how calm you sound. How softly you say it. One might almost think you were discussing the weather.

It’s inclement. Look how delightfully you’re smiling!

“Your soul,” they whisper, looking down. The chisps lodging in their hair somehow complete their forlorn look. You feel anger, guilt, and anger about the guilt.

“We’re such disgusting creatures, aren’t we?” you say cheerfully, chewing your hand to ribbons. “Each of us despicable in our own way.”

They hunch further into themselves, drawing their knees up to their chest and tightening their arms around them. “Sorry.” It’s a barely audible whisper. It repulses you.

 

You need… you need some air. Or whatever passes for it in this place. Certainly you still feel like you’re breathing. You turn from them. “Save it.”

You’d already taken a step when they make the noise behind you. A hiccup-giggle. You frown, and look over your shoulder. Their face is buried in their knees. Their shoulders are shaking. You stand there.

They look up. “Your soul,” they say, and you realise, and you scowl, folding your arms.

“Well, there’s certainly no rescue coming here,” you say, and they look contemplative, absently rubbing at their bitten hand. They shake their head as if to dismiss the thought. “Not from you.”

It’s strange. You cannot feel anything from them now. No hint of what they were just thinking. Does the reverse apply? It’s a comfort and it isn’t.

 

“Where are we?” you continue, looking upon the visual feast of black, black and, just to shake things up, obsidian. In a way it feels like the darkness encroaching on your vision in a FIGHT, that pinpoint narrowing of focus to a monochrome world where there is only your enemy and your soul and your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

“I thought you knew,” they say, puzzled. There seems no lie in their confusion. “You brought us here.”

“If there were anything deliberate about it, I would have left you behind,” you reply. Their expression flatlines. That’s really the only way to describe it.

“I think…” they say slowly, sounding it out as they go, uncurling and curling their fingers. “That we’re where things that don’t exist go.” Their gaze flicks up to meet your gaze. “You’ve been here before but… it’s different, somehow.”

You remember. A memory that isn’t yours. A deep, rumbling voice. The future of humans and monsters. Well, that wasn’t wrong. You know, in a deep seated, instinctual way, that you and the spectre in front of you are the only conscious entities in, paradoxically, existence.

 

It seems that, like much everything else about your life, this has been a massive failure.


	6. State of Flux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Fallen tells a story.

Silence reigns.

“When you first woke me up,” they say, eventually, not looking up at you. You want to protest. You didn’t wake them up. You’re sure you would have remembered deliberately doing that; they just suckered onto you like a lamprey and didn’t let go. “I had no idea what was happening. I’d failed. We’d _died._ ” You file away the ‘we’. They turn their head up to you, helplessly. “Wasn’t that _it?_ Game over, the end?”

“But,” you say, dully. “But,” they agree.

“You… didn’t talk to me at all. You didn’t seem to notice I was there? I thought, maybe I wasn’t. But… you still did things, and I thought maybe you wanted to _show_ me why I was here. You spared every monster you came across, even if it was mean sometimes.” They sound proud of you.

Whoop de do, you think. Like something like _not killing anyone_ deserves a gold star. You’re not sure what kind of star you’d get for killing _everyone._ Probably an ugly grey affair with the words ‘you didn’t even TRY’ on it. Achievement unlocked.

Frisk continues on, heedless of your inner monologue for once. “And then, there was Mom. And I couldn’t let you hurt her. I just couldn’t. She was just trying her best to keep you safe.”

“By trying her best to _fry me_ ,” you point out viciously. It’s strange that, even after all that’s happened, even after you actually _killed her_ , the betrayal still feels raw. Frisk winces.

“I… didn’t say she… was doing it the best way,” Frisk manages, as if even attempting to say something slightly bad about their Mom (and how did that happen? You think of a box of shoes. They came, they left, they died.) takes a great effort.

“I… I had to find out _why,_ ” they continue. “Why Mom and Dad were so unhappy, why… why my brother didn’t come back too. And when I found out why, even little pieces of why, I had to fix it. It was all my fault.” You stand passive in the edge of anguish colouring their voice. They hang their head. “I got so focused on that, I forgot about you. Or ignored you. I thought, ‘I’ll just do this, and then I’ll give it back’. I’ll just do that. And that and that. And then, um….”

“You went so quiet,” they whisper. “And I thought, maybe… maybe I’d imagined you. Maybe I’d been given a second chance. Like being reincarnated. Your soul is so much like mine was. I thought that it was me, Frisk, who had been doing the things you showed me. And I didn’t realise, until…”

They. Are actually sniffling. They knead their eyes with the palm of a hand. “Until too late.”

“Until you almost killed me,” you say. They flinch, but you refuse to let them avoid what they’ve done, even verbally. They nod. Neither of you speak for some time.

You pick at the double knots on your shoelaces. Pure habit you made them, what feels like ages ago. Wouldn’t want to trip and fall in a hole! Ha. “Do you think,” you say coldly, “that I will forgive you?”

“No,” they say, and you can tell from the tone that they did think you might, nonetheless. It incenses you a little bit. You shove that down for now. “I just wanted you to know _why._ And to say I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that word,” you say. Pick, pick. They come undone. “I do not think it means what you think it means.” You start methodically ripping the laces from their holes. They seem to… bristle a bit.

“I _am_ sorry.”

“You’re sorry you almost had blood on your hands.” Your voice is low, dangerous. That bottled up smoke is leaking out into it. “You’re sorry about my actions, as if they’re your responsibility!” You prod their chest with a finger. When did you stand up? “You’re sorry because the results of the true crime aren’t to your liking!” You shove them hard, at their shoulders, and they don’t dodge. They fall backwards onto the ground. You advance. You point to yourself, thumb back. One movement away from a fist.

“Even now! _I won’t let you._ ” You mimic their tone. “You haven’t changed anything at all!” What you say next is a shot in the dark, but they themselves have given you enough illumination for you to be confident in this vindictive strike. “You’re still the kind of person who claims they want the best for everyone and only achieves the complete opposite! At least,” you hiss, “I am honest about how awful I am.”

They’ve been slowly looking more and more stricken over the course of the tirade, and you see the shot strike home. For a second, it looks like they might crumple completely, but their face hardens and they slowly get up, wiping their nose with the back of their sleeve like a warrior drawing a sword.

“At least I try!” They yell at you. “At least I _tried_ to make things right! You’re just so convinced you’re terrible that you feel any bad thing you do is justified! Honestly,” the word is dark, “you just want an excuse to do what you will, and who cares about anyone else, because you’re awful already, so it’s okay, what did they expect!” Their voice turns mocking on the word. “You’re just selfish. You only care about yourself!”

Selfish. Ungrateful little… You should be thanking them, putting up with you. You’ve heard these things before. You thought you’d become inured. You thought accepting the truth would make it hurt less. Why doesn’t…

You don’t remember curling up again. It must have happened at some point, because here you are.

“Nobody else will,” you whisper, looking at the weave in the brown fabric covering your knees. You close your eyes. You can’t see their expression. They make a small, soft noise, but that doesn’t tell you anything at all. You laugh, it’s so funny. Nobody else will, but you yourself aren’t doing too good a job of it either, huh?

You feel, rather than see, the presence sits next to you, and a reaching out, pausing, and withdrawal.

“I’m sorry,” they say faintly, and you are sick of those words. They mean nothing. You don’t respond, which they seem to take as an invitation to continue, after a hesitation. “I will.”

“Liar.” You sound so, so tired.

“I mean it! I will. I’ll try. I will.” They sound as if it is a certainty of the universe, that they can make themselves care for a thing like you, since they don’t already. “You… you deserve to be loved, too.”

“Stop.” You shift so your forehead presses against your knees. “You only say that because you think everyone does.” From the way they shift, guiltily, you know you’ve hit the mark. It’s not about you, personally. It’s about not abandoning a clung-to worldview. You could probably dig more ammunition out of that but… you’re done. They won. 0 EXP, 0 gold.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true,” they say eventually.

“And since you’re the only one here, the responsibility falls to you. How noble. What a sacrifice. Truly, you are a saint.”

“ _That’s_ not true,” they say. Almost sharply, but it’s blunted by something mournful. “…It wouldn’t matter if there were other people, anyway.” It’s said with rock hard confidence.

“Frisk.” You murmur it into the void. “Leave me alone.”

There’s silence.

“Okay.” The shuffling of fabric as they get up. Quiet footsteps slowly receding into the distance. You keep expecting it to be a trick, something to get you to uncurl, because since when have they actually listened to you, but they don’t return. There’s no voice by your ear.

Slowly, by increments, you relax.

You finally get some sleep.


	7. Deal With The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is made.

When you wake, you see them on what passes for a horizon. Just a dab of blue on black. 

 

You feel exactly as tired as you did when you went to sleep. You knew this would happen. It’s the tired that sleep cannot help. 

You search your pockets. Empty, except for a single, lost, chisp. You still don’t feel hungry. You eat it anyway, for something to do. Tastes like lint and bad decisions. 

You feel naked, without weapons or armor. Even the locket is gone from your neck. You can’t remember when that happened. There’s nothing else to do, and you hate it. You start walking towards the blue dot, and it slowly resolves into a crosslegged shape, facing 2 o’ clock. 

A speck of gold plays between their fingers. There’s… no light source to catch it, chain swinging, and yet it shines. Your hand goes to the empty space beneath your neck, and you smoulder. It is amazing how everything they do can make you angry, or perhaps that’s just you. You say nothing. It was a gift, but not for _you_. A case of mistaken identity; you don’t get gifts. You are many things, but you are not a _thief_. 

 

“You’re right,” Frisk says, without turning towards you. Their shoulders are slumped. “All I do is mess things up.” 

It doesn’t feel like a victory. You simply stand there. Nothing continues to be said on your part. They’re not the only one to whom the sentiment applies. 

“I just wanted everyone to be happy,” they murmur, more to the locket in their lap than to you.

They slowly clutch it to their chest, shaking. Their breathing is thick. You do not comfort them.

“Tell me about your brother,” you say instead, sitting some distance away. They hiccup. It takes some time before you receive an answer. 

“He was…” they start. It’s plain they don’t even know where to _begin_. “He was the first person I met, Underground.” They look over at you. Their eyes are raw, but there’s no tears. They seem to have run out some time ago. “You remember… do you remember? He asked what my name was.” 

“’That’s a nice name’,” you quote. 

They nod. “Nobody had… asked me that for a long time.” 

They don’t elaborate. You know why. “He was… really energetic.” They laugh a little. “He was always running around, showing me things, showing me around. Things he thought were cool, that made him happy. I think… I think he was trying to give me the entire Underground, in a way. He was really curious about me, too, about the surface. He would… make up these elaborate stories and try to get me to play.” They suck a large quantity of snot into the back of their nose in a way that makes a horrifying gristly noise. “I didn’t… always get it. Didn’t play along with him. He’d get frustrated sometimes. But… never angry.” 

You’re not sure why you asked. None of this means anything to you. But you know it was the right choice. There’s love in these words. Fondness. Sadness. Their gaze is elsewhere, displaced in time.

“He was so _kind_ ,” they finish. “They all were.” Their eyes snap to you, a knife-sharp, exposed _and you killed them_ before the walls go up again, into that placid, neutral expression. You feel your own rising.

 

“ _Kind,”_ you say, letting the word roll off your tongue. “Very kind. Kind enough to kill me.” 

They twitch, fingers curling tighter over the metal. “They were just doing what they thought was right.” It’s said quietly. Your smile widens. 

“Well,” you say, spreading your hands, palms up. “Of course it was right. Look at what I did to them! Truly, killing me before I could was the blatantly correct choice. After all, it’s _kill or be killed._ ” You mimic that high, mocking voice and do a pretty good impression, you think. 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” They snap, looking you dead on in the eyes and flicking their gaze away just as quickly. It comes to rest back on the locket, which they knead with their fingers, running them over the inscription you didn’t care to read before. You still can’t read it from this distance or angle. “They didn’t know you could do that, before. _I_ didn’t know you would do that. It wasn’t _about_ that.” 

You start to speak, even if you’re unsure of what you’re about to say other than it’s probably going to follow the current trend of being bitingly caustic, and they cut you off, letting the locket fall over their head back onto their neck and shifting from their cross-legged position to something a little more upright. Wow. They seem… incensed? Certainly like they feel strongly about this. “All of them thought they were doing what was best for someone else, even if it was wrong! You,” they point at you, standing up fully. “Didn’t.” 

You’d be almost impressed with how _vicious_ that was if you weren’t feeling sick with _something_ , probably some flavour of anger. But. You deserve this. You won’t deny that. They aren’t lying at all. When you next speak, icicles could be chipped off your tone. 

“I believe. We have already established. That I did think I was doing what was best for someone. Myself. After all, I am a selfish thing. As you know. Certainly. There is nothing in me that believes. In sacrificing myself for those who would harm me.” 

But, no. That’s not quite right is it? Otherwise you would have… you wouldn’t have hunted _everyone_ down. And it seems they have followed the same train of thought in a way that makes you think that they might still be able to read it. 

“You didn’t want to not be hurt! You didn’t want to not die! You just wanted to hurt _me_ , to make _me_ disappear instead!” Frisk’s hands are on their chest, over where their soul would emerge if they had one, for this is almost certainly a FIGHT and words are the knives. “You just wanted to _make me pay._ ” Disgust drips from them like venom. 

There it is. The truth of the matter. Your face is starting to hurt a little. You might as well embrace this. 

“I felt I should return the favour. It is only fair, is it not?” 

“You could have done anything to me. I’m the one… I’m the one who hurt you.” They say it like a quietly dawning revelation. You want to bite them. Especially when they shake their head and say, “But the others had nothing to do with it. _You killed them_.” 

“I killed them,” you agree. There it is, aloud. Honestly, you’re getting a little sick of this conversation. You’re not sure what they’re hoping to achieve from it. For you to admit wrongdoing? You’re doing that. “And it was out of pure spite. I had to show my LOVE for you somehow!” There’s… not really much you can do to a voice in your head save the last solution, and even that didn’t work. You laugh, and shrug.  “I never claimed to be a good person.” 

They make a noise of frustration and throw their hands up. “But you _could_ be!” Haha, what a lie. “I saw you, the first time. You spared all the monsters in the Ruins. _You_ did that. I didn’t make you, nobody told you to. Well, Mom hinted very strongly…” 

“I threatened, bullied, and ate them,” you point out, ignoring the fact that you also did _not_ , in places. “If _not killing anyone_ is what it takes to be a good person, then you must be the absolute shining paragon of humanity.” You can very easily - a little _too_ easily - think of more humans than you have fingers who are absolutely disgusting wastes of flesh the world would be a better place without and yet have never committed homicide. (Human-derived. Is there a word for the murder of sentience in general? It sure is a good thing you can just slap what you’ve done under ‘genocide’!) 

Their face comes down like window shutters. “I’m _not_ ,” they insist. “I’m really, really not. Please stop saying things like that.” You remember now. They said they’d killed people they loved. You… don’t think you’ve ever loved someone, so you don’t know what that would do or why it would be done. You think you might have been able to love Toriel, eventually. That that might have been why her fire hurt so much. This is not a fruitful train of thought. 

“You’re better than _me_ ,” you say matter-of-factly, tonelessly. “Letting me live was a mistake on your part. You should have taken the money and run, so to speak.” 

“Please don’t say things like that either,” they plead tightly. “You deserve to live. You deserve to have a chance.” It sounds like a mantra, something to repeat while rocking. 

“Frisk,” you say, smiling. “You were only doing what you thought was right. What was best for everyone in the Underground.”

 

Their hands, sleeves pulled over their tips, shake and go to their mouth, and they hunch over as if physically struck. Their breath is coming in stutters. You stand there in confusion. That was not meant to be a blow, but, dare you think it, a reassurance, even if one mockingly parroting their words and ideology back at them. 

You have no idea what you’re supposed to do here.

 

But you know what you are. And what they do.  
  
“Let us make a deal,” you say, straight-backed and formal and still smiling.

 

They look up.


	8. The Voice In Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is this, actual bonding? Disgusting.

Pollen tickles your nose, and you sneeze.  
  
_*You really turned back!?_ It’s equal part genuine surprise and delight with just a hint of smug I-told-you-so. Wow. You want to hit them already. This partnership is getting off to a great start.  
  
You don’t bother opening your eyes. You don’t get up, either. You lie in the warmth of the sunlight; it feels like ages since you’ve done so even though it can’t have been more than four days, you think. You can see a little of why monsters might yearn for it now.  
  
_*…_  
_*…you aren’t getting up?_  
  
Nope. You’re going to just lie here. You carefully try to keep your thoughts still and blank, a mental image of a calm pond that flickers to Waterfall cyan before you hastily wipe it away. Suspicion rises from them and it’s your turn to be a little smug. It’s not perfect, but thinking about not thinking about what you don’t want to think about works.  
  
There’s a drawn out groan in the back of your mind, and the sensation of someone flopping backwards, but they say nothing further.  
You’ve only vaguely heard of meditation, but you think it is probably something like this. Something to do with breathing to a rhythm? You experiment, and time passes. Eventually there’s the feeling of Frisk pressing themselves up against the back of your mind like a little kid to the glass of a candy store.  
  
_*It’s going to get dark soon_ , they hint. You don’t care.  
  
_*Your clothes are going to get pollen all over them._ You have no real attachment to these clothes. It’s not like having stripes made you any less vulnerable. Frisk winces, and while they don’t _say_ it, you get a sense of a wondering why that was the first place your mind went to – and a faded echo of knowing.  
  
_*Flowey might come in._ You can’t do anything about him at this stage, regardless of location. Frisk wonders if you’re staying here because you don’t want to be hurt by him, and while they agree that you shouldn’t be, they have an itch to progress. You are… annoyed by this? Yes. Annoyed. It’s not quite anger.  
  
_*…you’ve lying on my grave_ , Frisk says, and then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, _*What happened to respect for the dead?_ Probably the same thing that happened to respect for bodily autonomy, you think back. A low blow, and it connects nicely.  
  
Frisk feels that while your anger was justified, continuing it seems strange to them. They’ve apologised. They’ve promised not to, and they mean to keep that promise. You’ve both agreed to work together now. Why are things so hard? Isn’t it all solved now? They don’t understand.  
…they realise what you’re doing. They want you _out._  
  
You surface, and even though it wasn’t water you gasp for air all the same. That. That was. Scary. You _lost_ yourself for a minute there. It’s not fair! They can read your thoughts whenever _they_ want. Why can’t you do the same without… that.  
There’s only a curl of resentment sent at you.  
  
It takes a while for your surroundings to come back to you. Warm. Soft. Fur. Cloth. White. Purple. You almost feel like falling asleep but. You’re being carried. You’re being _held._  
  
You struggle wildly, and the grip only tightens. Later, you will realise she was reflexively attempting to prevent you falling and hurting yourself, but in this moment of time all you register is the enclosing and your thoughts narrow to _escape._  
  
You kick and bite and squirm and snarl and vaguely register being hurriedly lowered but break away quick enough that the purple stone bruises your shoulder and makes you see stars. The pain makes things worse. A huge shape towers over you and you scramble to get up get up and you punch Toriel dead straight in the knee.  
  
You immediately regret it as your LOVEless hand screams at you, as does Frisk.  
  
_*You said you wouldn’t!_ They sound betrayed. You hate them. It. _Them._ Your breathing is coming fast and ragged. You’re folded up, face in your knees. Nothing happens.  
  
“My apologies, my child.” Toriel’s voice is pitched low and soothing, like you are a wild animal. You can picture her reaching out a paw towards you. “I did not mean to startle you. I can assure you I mean you no harm.” You draw in a breath that sounds almost like a sob, but can’t be, because you don’t cry. The shuffle of cloth against stone. “Will you allow me to heal you?” You curl up tighter, but nod into your knees.  
Her paws briefly hover close enough over the sites of your cuts and scrapes to feel their heat but they don’t touch. You think about a mountain, and a box of fourteen shoes.  
  
…twelve shoes. Strange.  
  
Frisk fidgets.  
  
_*She has some experience with. Um. Scared kids._  
  
“It was irresponsible of me to carry you,” Toriel says as she works. “You were sleeping so soundly I did not wish to wake you, and the Ruins can be dangerous for humans, but I could have waited with you.”  
  
You slowly look up above the horizon of your knees. You swallow, once, twice. You’d thought of saying something different, but in the end what comes out of your mouth is a raspy “Who’re you?”  
  
It’s… strange. To speak aloud now. Even in the Void, that didn’t feel quite like speech. You need to maintain the script. You’ve already gone far from it already, although it’s good you didn’t have to deal with Flowey.  
  
Toriel smiles at you. “I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins. I pass by here every day in case a human has fallen.” Would you ask what she is at this point? Then again, it’s a little obvious. “Come, young one.”  
  
She stands up from her position on her knees, and walks to the door, pausing to look back at you before passing through.  
  
You follow.  
  
Frisk’s apprehension infects your own.  
  
  
  
Things progress much the same after that. You still have the Bandage, even if the wounds under it are gone, but you feel the absence of your stick keenly. Weapon aside, it was one of the few things you could call truly yours.  
Your passenger is mostly silent now. They’re a little more animated when telling you about the monsters, and they give small encouragements when you spare them that make you press the buttons and switches of the puzzles maybe a bit harder than necessary, but outside of battle they seem pensive.  
  
_*Hey, Chara?_  
  
You’re lying on a bed that several other dead people have slept on. If you yourself sleep, you might never get up. You open your eyes. You’re not about to start answering out loud. That way lies accusations of madness. They take it as the acknowledgement it is.  
  
_*What are you thinking?_  
  
It’s not an accusation. They feel genuinely curious. Don’t they know?  
  
_*Only the surface stuff. You’re a loud thinker. I can’t_ not _know those._  
  
That… you think about having someone else’s thoughts broadcast to you all the time. It would probably get very old. The invasion of privacy on the other end is worse, though.  
  
_*Well now we’re even aren’t we?_  
  
Snippy. It’s not even at all, but you’ve already been arguing with them near non-stop when you’ve actually been talking to each other, so it’s up to you to be the better person here. Frisk mumbles something dark and deliberately indistinct, and you don’t rise to that bait either. You roll to your side and close the eyes.  
  
“I’m thinking,” you say, already breaking your vow as you drift off, “that you should shut up and let me sleep.”  
  
They shut up and let you sleep, but they aren’t happy about it. Restlessness thrums through your dreams.

  
  
When you wake, there is pie. You eat half of it with your bare hands and shove the plate with the rest of it under the bed that is yours now, licking your fingers. It is a shame you don’t have anything to wrap it in.  
  
_*Mom might have something if you ask._  
  
It is a shame you don’t have anything to wrap it in, but it’s so sweet it should keep for a while, and while the underside of the bed isn’t the cleanest it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve eaten dusty food. You stretch, and then make your way over to the toybox. The toys are pretty cool; soft and clean and smelling vaguely of soap and disuse. You wonder if there’s a monster toystore out there somewhere, and pick one up, placing it on your lap.  
  
_*I… didn’t really get the point of them_ , Frisk says, as you toy with the plush’s limbs like you’ve forgotten how playing is supposed to go, which you kind of have. It’s enough to just feel the fur under your fingers. _*They were my brothers’. He used to give them names and backstories. That one’s Sir Fluffington_ , they say helpfully.  
  
“An apt name,” you say with as much absolute seriousness as you can muster. They laugh and it feels… genuine?  
  
_*He’s a member of the Royal Guard who is filled with angst about his past in the War and who can shoot fire lasers out of his eyes and makes earthquakes when he walks so he scooters everywhere._ The feeling of a nod. That they remembered all that, years later… fills you with determination.  
  
The bright spark of a save forming almost makes you fall over. You’d… it had been a while since you hadn’t done that deliberately. Hadn’t done that with nothing but raw determination.  
  
Frisk seems more focused on the toybox in your peripheral vision than the toy you’re staring down at. You get the distinct impression they’d be frowning slightly, if they could.  
  
_*Mom must have bought more,_ they say. _*I don’t remember those ones._  
  
“I think I would have liked your brother,” you say, making Sir Flufflington ‘walk’ and destroy the earth with the sheer magnitude of his steps. You expect Frisk to say something sappy or wistful or worst case scenario tell you they don’t want to talk about it or you’re not worthy to even speak about him or something like that but instead there’s just a silence that stretches out to awkwardness.  
  
_*Yeah_ , they say eventually, and then perk up. _*Maybe you’ll get to meet him! Properly, I mean._  
  
It’s your turn to frown, returning Sir Fuffmeister to your lap and looking at the wall as if if you stared at it hard enough, you could make Frisk manifest into visible form. “You said he was dead.” Well, implied it very hard. “Wait, did you…?”  
  
_*...I don’t want to talk about it_ , they whisper. Conversation closed, you guess. You’re an only child, you can’t speak to why someone might murder their sibling. Unless their brother hurt them?  
  
_*Stop._  
  
You stop. You carefully place Sir Fluffington back on top of the toy pile, and close the box. Nothing else in the room interests you, so you decide to snoop a bit. You didn’t the first time, out of respect for Toriel, but remembered burns are making you feel just a little bit less so.  
  
...Toriel’s room is less interesting than you thought it would be. You roll around in her bed for a bit to a gasp of scandalised shock from your lodger, and get covered in shed fur which is replaced by the remains of the pollen you’ve been tracking everywhere. You sneeze. Smells like goat. There’s another gasp when you open the shock, er, sock drawer, and _this_ time, you are pretty sure it’s deliberately put on because they’re just socks?  
  
_*They’re an undergarment!_  
  
Frisk is weird. Monsters are weird. You scan the bookshelf, spot a book on gardening that looks interesting, and skim it. Seems to be a botany bestiary. You’re not sure how long you stand there reading it, only it’s long enough for Frisk to feel like they’re kicking their legs back and forth.  
  
_*You really like plants, huh?_  
  
You snap the book shut and close your eyes, exhaling as you return it neatly. “Frisk,” you say, “I am a chlorophyta _expert._ ” You try not to let how proud you are of remembering that one word into your thoughts - too late. You turn to the cactus in the corner of the room and gesture to it. “For example, did you know that cacti are the most tsundere of plants?”  
  
They giggle and you feel weirdly warm, until they ask, _*...What’s tsundere?_  
  
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” you murmur, and head over to the desk.  
  
_*Um, thanks?_ They reply, and you feel deeply saddened by their apparent lack of ancient television show knowledge considering you were practically forced to watch it at knifepoint as part of the curriculum. You ended up liking it anyway. _*Wait, are you flirting with me, cutie? Noooo don’t read her diary!_  
  
“Never call me that again,” you reply, slightly mortified, as you flip through the pages. It seems to be mainly puns of an osseous caliber. It’s a step above the snowy plowver’s attempts, you will admit. Frisk is radiating something like a small ball of gleeful light.  
  
_*They’re so adorable._  
  
“More _humerus_ than adorable,” you say, and put the book down, nudging it so it’s exactly where you left it and open to the right page. Frisk snort-laughs and shakes their non-existent head. _*Oh, you sweet summer child._ You huff. What? Is there something they’re not telling you? Have you been tricked? _*I’ll tell you when you’re older._  
  
Hello again, urge to punch Frisk calling. It’s been a while, how have you been?  
  
...the fact that this thought amuses them further only increases it.  
  
There’s nothing else in the room that really catches your eye, apart from a cursory confusion as to why there’s a bucket of snails here and then a horrified realisation to a quietly giggling mental backdrop. You exit the room post haste and look at the mirror.  
  
Red eyes hidden by an auburn fringe and your green and yellow sweater. It’s still you. You nod at the glass and turn to the water sausage, excuse you, _Typha._  
  
_*Eat it._  
  
What? No!  
  
_*You can eat it, promise!_  
  
You are _not_ going to go around eating weird plants. The entry didn’t say anything about if it was poisonous or not, and you don’t trust Frisk that much.  
  
There’s a silence. There continues to be a silence all the way down the hall and past the stairs and into the living room, up until you sit next to the fire. It’s warm. Toriel’s chair is a safe but companionable distance away. She looks up and smiles at you under her glasses as you sit down.  
  
“Did you have a good rest, my child?” You nod. Perhaps sensing that you don’t really want to talk further, she herself nods and returns to reading her book. You read the title, and shudder, and look at the fire.  
  
_*It’s magic fire,_ Frisk exposits. Their tone is a little subdued, still. _*You could put your hand inside and you wouldn’t get burned._  
  
It’s… tempting. It’s far too tempting. It builds up, and you fidget. Against a little voice that is probably not Frisk and is screaming at you, you stare into the heart of the flames and plunge your hands into them.  
  
“Child!” Toriel says in shock, getting up, and you cringe as the book is snapped shut and dropped on the armrest as you feel her presence shift to behind you, but you keep staring at your fire-licked hands. It feels exactly like that. It tickles. It’s warm like sunlight.  
  
Toriel’s paws hover over you and then gently pull them out. You let her. The grip is so light that you could pull out of it easily if you wanted. “My child,” she says and you look up at her. She seems a little shaken. “You should discuss with me first before doing such things. This fire is safe, but others might not be.” You nod. You carefully pull back your fingers, and look back at the flames, still dancing. “C’n I do that again?” you mutter.  
  
Her fur, which has actually been standing on end in places, giving her a ruffled look, slowly settles. “Of course, young one. You may play with **_this_** fire as much as you wish.” The stern emphasis brooks no argument as to any others. You return your hands to it, carding them  through the flames, which split and waver around your fingers. Toriel returns to reading in her chair. Even not looking at her, you can tell she regards you carefully before turning the page.  
  
_*Um, sorry. I forgot she wouldn’t know you knew._ It’s fine. You’ll just have to be more careful from now on. For some reason, they don’t seem to like the sound of that.


	9. A Fatal Error Has Occured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please restart and try again.

You look in the fridge, half expecting chocolate. There’s only boxes of eggs, milk, and other pie ingredients.

_*Why would there be chocolate?_

You don’t know why, honestly. Chocolate is a thing found on shelves at stores and replaced by scrounged change and hidden under clothes and beds and eaten piecemeal only after having set into melted shapes. Putting it in a fridge is a weird thought. Anyone could take it. Like you. It was probably more that you were _hoping_ there would be some.

_*You could tell her, you know. She’d get some for y- ew!_

You can’t speak while you’re drinking from the milk carton so you just flip the air the bird. Get off your back.

_*Use a glass!_

What are they, your mother? You set the carton back into the fridge door and pinch it closed. Look, your mouth didn’t even touch it, so it’s fine. You wipe your face with the back of a ratty sleeve. Toriel has so far been unsuccessful in getting you to change your clothes to wash them because the alternatives are obviously leftover Frisk clothes and you’ll be wearing those on your dead body. So far, she hasn’t pressed the issue much, but you’re morbidly curious about how far you can push that particular envelope.

...you wonder where the Underground even gets milk. Your memory of the majority is fuzzy but you haven’t seen any cows in it.

Frisk tells you. Smugly. You try not to throw up in the sink while your passenger radiates a smarm that makes you wish they had a physical form if only to kick it, for the umpteenth time.

_*You can’t throw it up, sorry. It’s all magic. It’s a part of your soul now._

They are enjoying this far too much.

_*Wait ‘till I tell you about the eggs._

Desist. They’re probably lying, anyway. You’ve been pranked, somehow. Tricked. It’s probably just ordinary milk. Probably. That’s what it tastes like, anyway. Mostly. You shut the fridge door. You’ve already seen all the rest of the kitchen. And the house, save the room that is always locked in such a way that makes you itch for any ability with lockpicks (as well as actual lockpicks). And the Ruins areas that Toriel will let you go. And some of the Ruins areas that she won’t, but only so far as you can go before she finds you.

It’s... stifling. It’s only been a week and you hate it. Isn’t this what you wanted? The memory is distant, but you remember wanting to stay with her forever.

It’s probably Frisk. _Their_ doing. They’ve been pushing you to leave in one way or another every single day, and you have been refusing. They want to help monsters, they say, or don’t say. They can’t do that stuck here.

This is the litmus test of the deal between the two of you. How long before they inevitably crack and take you over to achieve their goals.

_*I promised!_

Promises don’t mean anything. You think maybe if you hide in the the well this time she’ll go right past you. And if you wait for her to leave for groceries, that’s a few hours of a good head start.

Something’s missing, you think at dinner that night, having received a worried scolding for hiding in something which could have broken your neck. She’s probably going to be even more coddling, now. It’s snails, again. You’re not a picky eater when it comes to taste but the texture took some getting used to. Something’s changed from that first time and you don’t know what it is and it frustrates you. This place doesn’t feel like it could be a Home anymore. It feels like you just live here and take advantage of Toriel’s hospitality. Like you’re still on guard. Like the other shoe will drop.

_*I felt like that too. It’s okay. She isn’t expecting anything in return. And she really means it!_

You stab a snail with your fork with more force than necessary. You’re not allowed anything remotely resembling an edged object, let alone a knife, after she caught you changing your bandage. She threw it away and replaced it with fresh clean ones even though they’re useless given healing magic and while intellectually you know that was the best th ing and it’s a miracle the old one wasn’t giving you repeated infections (or maybe it was, there was a lot of pus mixed in the blood crusting it), it was still _yours._

When you asked for it back she’d apologetically said she burned it. You smiled at her, and said that was okay.

You scratch at the new, clean bandage. Frisk tells you to stop. You scratch harder.

You spend the evening reading. There’s no way to tell time here, but somehow it _feels_ like evening. You’ve been slowly working your way through the books in between Toriel’s lessons, which are interesting even if she avoids answering certain questions, and her bug-catching sessions, which are not. Occasionally you will come across a gap where a page has been carefully cut out. Sometimes entire segments are. You don’t know why this makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

You tolerate Toriel tucking you in. She turns to you before leaving, as if checking to see you haven’t vanished in the brief time she wasn’t looking, before smiling a little waterly and closing the door. You stare into the soft darkness for a long time before you actually sleep. Your dreams are filled with fire and dust and you wake up with your teeth clenched so hard they feel like they might crack, air whistling rapidly in and out of your nose. You taste and smell blood like the dream has followed you and it takes a long, confused while before you realise that you’ve bitten your tongue. You slowly, forcefully, open your mouth and ratchet your fingers loose from the blanket. You lie there and just breathe.

This is not the first time. Frisk denies it, but you’re sure they are responsible. Just like they’re responsible for the small, frightened voice telling you to hold on, help is coming, every time you die. They’re trying to wear you down and make you leave without breaking the deal.

...It’s working. The half-pie under the bed, along with the rest of the growing trove, is exactly the same as when you left it. One of the books _said_ that monster food didn’t spoil, but seeing it in action is different. You take as much as you can carry. You’ll need it.

Frisk is worryingly silent. No. Not worryingly. Suspiciously.

You shift your joints to get all the cracks out and pad to Toriel’s room on the balls of your feet. The carpet is nicely short enough to not swish while still muffling your footfalls - you have no idea how sensitive goat hearing is. You press your ear up to the door and listen. She doesn’t snore, exactly, but she does breath loud enough you can hear it if you strain. It’s slow and rhythmic. Good.

The stone of the basement is cold on your socked feet but you’ve strung your shoes around your neck because you can’t move as silently in them. You’d go without them if you didn’t know how cold it was on the other side. You stand in front of the Ruins doors, and prepare to push them.

Orange flares up behind you, and you freeze.

“My child,” Toriel says sternly and with an undercurrent of fear you have to strain to catch. There’s a flare of heat in you as you slowly turn. She has never once asked your name in this entire week. “I understand you are curious but it is late. Go back to bed.”

You brace yourself, but the fire isn’t being flung at you. It seems to be being used purely for light, but you know that could change at any moment.

“My name,” you say, smiling at her, “is Chara.” Frisk sends a pulse of warning at you, more sentiment than the actual words _*Remember the deal_ , clearly recalling the last time you spoke those words with that same smile plastered on your face like dust.

“Chara,” Toriel says. “You should not be down here. Go to your room.”

“Why?” you say sweetly. “It’s only a door.” You place a hand on one and push. It’s thick, heavy stone - you need two hands for this - but it’s enough to make her fur bristle.

“Naive child, if you leave through it, you will die. They… ASGORE… will kill you. Do you understand? Come back with me, _right now._ ”

 _*Maybe…_ it’s said tentatively. _*Maybe you_ should _stay. You could be happy here. You could._ You have no time for this sudden reversal. Be careful what you wish for, voice, because you’re getting it.

You look Toriel dead in the eyes with all your strength, red to copper, and speak, enunciating the syllables through your snarl of a smile.

“Make. Me.”

And then you turn and shove at the doors, and white paws clamp down on your shoulders and pull you back, and you go falling, back hitting stone that scrapes you up as you slide. You get to your feet. The door is obscured. The flames swirl and flicker dangerously.

_*Toriel blocks the way!_

“If you truly wish to leave, Chara, prove it,” Toriel is staring at a point somewhere above your head. “Prove to me you are strong enough to survive!”

The world narrows to a FIGHT as your eyes do. You slowly, deliberately, take out the toy knife. You tie the ribbon into your hair like a warband.

 _*Toriel looks like she’s trying not to remember something._ Fire is flung at you. You try to dodge, and are clipped. It hurts. There’s the sensation of everything inrushing to a point.

 _*rememberthedealrememberthedealrememberthedealrememberthedeal_ You strike, and hit, and hiss. Enough damage that it could have killed you, and it’s barely a scratch for her. You find yourself craving LOVE badly.

 _*REMEMBERTHEDEALREMEMBERTHEDEALREMEMBERTHEDEAL_ It’s hard to focus with them screaming at you, and you narrowly avoid getting struck, yourself. The smell of burnt hair fills the chamber. The deal specifically said killing. There was nothing about other kinds of harm. All you have to do is _prove yourself._

You strike with your rage and betrayal and hate more than the knife and do even more damage. It’s getting easier. It always gets easier. Slowly, you chip away at her. You imagine each blow is for an injustice done to you, every time someone like her has failed you, a list that’s consuming your mind with its length.

 _*Stop, stop! Chara, you’re not in control, you need to stop!_ Of course you’re in control. You’ve never been more in control. You’re burning with clarity, in addition to in the literal sense.

The worst thing on the list does three hundred damage. It’s too much.

She tells you to be good. _She tells you to be good._ You start laughing, and don’t stop until you’re coughing, choking, on dust. Your LOVE has increased. It’s a numb balm. You need… you need more. You _really_ need more. There’s… there’s still monsters in the Ruins, right? Weak things. Your fingers - the ones not gripping the dust covered knife like it’s the last thing on Earth - twitch. You stand up, unsure when you fell to your knees, and turn back from the door.

Your legs tangle about themselves and you fall. The purple walls flash Waterfall-blue and your breath hitches as your eyes blow wide.

 _*You broke your promise_. Frisk’s voice is the coldest you’ve ever heard it. It sounds despair-dead. _*It’s my turn._ You stand up without your volition and all you can think is no no no no no no _no no no_. It’s happening again. You don’t want this. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be here so hard that suddenly, you aren’t.

You find yourself staring down at a soft toy. It might be your imagination, that it’s looking back up at you like it’s concerned for you. You throw it across the room and kick the toybox so hard your foot smarts and it tips over, plushes falling out like water. The pain wakes you up a bit. Your chest is tight with the strain of a body that doesn’t understand why it’s going from calm to panic in less than a second.

You retch, and there is something to throw up this time, because it’s still your first day in the Underground. You’ve gone back. You’ve gone back. You’re alive. You’re not dead. She’s not dead. _She’s not dead._ She is, in fact, rather startled when you burst into the living room, stare at her, and then run back out again before she can finish asking if something’s wrong. She follows you down the hall as you go back into your room and slam the door and start piling up things against it while desperately wishing this door had a lock too. The doorknob rattles on top of the dresser and you lean your weight against it, curled up.

“Innocent one?” She speaks through the door. You get the feeling that she could still open it easily despite your hurried barricade. “Tell me what the matter is. Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, realising belatedly that she can’t see. You’re stuck in here with the smell of your vomit. “No,” you say, trying for calm and nonchalant and only achieving thick and shaky. “Go away.”

She goes. Reluctantly, and with some screeching at her on your part, but she goes. Not without a reassurance for when you come out. You sink down onto the floor like you’re melting. You wait.

_*..._

There it is.

_*We… really messed up, huh._

You don’t reply.

 _*Do you… want to try again?_ That weird, not-quite-there sensation of someone fidgeting in your mind.

“I’m tired,” is all you say. You know that, temporally speaking, you’ve just woken up, but you turn off the lamp and slip under the covers anyway. You face the wall.

_*...goodnight, Chara._


	10. Advice From A Soulless Pacifist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every child has to leave Home one day.

“How do you do it,” you ask, later. That presence seems to jerk awake. Scrubbing the walls likely isn’t very interesting to watch. You’d gone up to Toriel and all but demanded some chore to do, because you need to do something, anything with your hands, and cleaning is the sort of mindless repetitive task that means you can not think about anything for hours.

It’s mostly useless, since the house is already spotless, save for a faint layer of dust in places. Perhaps Toriel, too, needs something to distract herself, given the speed at which she was convinced. She called you a thoughtful child. That’s been sticking with you and you don’t know why.

...maybe you should have made a mess. Gone wild with the crayons. You’re absolutely certain she would have assigned cleaning it as a punishment. At least what you’re doing would be _doing_ something.

_*Do what?_ They say, and break your train of thought.

“How do you just… not fight when people attack you?” Not that it’s impossible for you, but all the monsters in the Ruins require very little to placate them, or can be run from to progress. Whimsums won’t even hurt you if you don’t move at all. Refusing to harm someone over and over… at what point does repetition become insanity?

You half-expect them to say something saccharine or flippant or disapproving that you have to _ask_ or ask if that’s even a serious question, but instead they hum thoughtfully. You can feel them actually considering it.

_*I guess I just… think about why they’re doing this. And how most of the time they aren’t really trying to hurt me or don’t actually want to hurt me but think they have to to get what they want._

You scrub at the paint hard enough it might just come off. It’s still technically cleaning. Hurt _them_ , huh?

_*I mean._

_*You didn’t really want to hurt me._

“I was _there_ , Frisk,” you say, moving on to the next area. You’ve been keeping a mental map of which areas you’ve completed and which you haven’t because it would be difficult to tell otherwise. “I distinctly remember wanting with every fibre of my being to wipe you from the face of this miserable earth, after making you suffer in any way I could.”

Something curls in you. Feels thick and heavy. You wipe it away. Frisk, for their part, seems a little taken aback to hear it out loud.

_*Yeah but…_ they collect themself. _*You wanted to hurt me so I wouldn’t hurt you again. You wanted me to disappear so that you’d feel safe._

“Stop,” you warn. Wow, you hate this. Because you _hated_ them (you still hate them, maybe?) and they’re just… dismissing that. Dismissing what you _know_ you felt. Intent means nothing, but your actions bore your intent, and it was to _harm._ Now that that isn’t happening, they’re just rationalising them away so that they can sleep at night secure in the knowledge that no-one is truly evil, and anyone can be a good person if they really try, and who cares if people like Frisk get hurt a little if it all turns out okay in the end?

They squint. Or give the impression of squinting. _*..._

No, you’re not reading them again. They’re just that predictable. (Or you’re bleeding into each other again and hey that’s sure a thing to never think about again ever.) They rally.

_*It’s not okay, though._

Well of course it isn’t. You’re still here, and still fucking up and killing people.

_*...you know what? Forget it!_

That actually gets you to pause in your task. You’re not sure what expression is on your face but confusion is probably there.

_*I do it because it’s the right thing and because it’s easy for me and that means because you don’t and it isn’t you’re wrong and bad and will always be wrong and bad. There! That’s what you wanted to hear, right? Great! We’re done._

You just kind of… stare into the middle distance and then laugh a little, in a way that’s just a little bit too high. They… actually just did that?

They’ve sort of stormed off into the back of your head and you still can’t quite believe that just happened, because even all the times they’ve gotten sharp and snippy at you they’ve never had an honest-to-god _tantrum_.

_*I mean it_.

A tantrum. Like an actual five year old. Amazing. They writhe.

_*It’s not a tantrum._

It so is.

_*Isn’t._

Is.

_*Isn’t._

Is. You can do this all day.

_*What I was_ going _to say,_ they say, perhaps wisely deciding not to test you on this, _*Is that it’s not okay because you’re still not safe. I could… I could possess you at any time, like this._ They sound as nauseous as you feel. _*You know it, and I know it and I still…_

“I broke the deal,” you say flatly, twisting the cleaning rag in your hands. It tears a little further. “It was fair.” After all, they had to stop a thing like you somehow.

_*No it wasn’t!_ They shout, and it rings loud enough in your head a groan escapes you against your will and you clutch it. _*The deal was stupid! I took away something that was only yours and held it over you to make you behave! You had to_ negotiate _to get it back!_

“Perhaps I _need_ a leash,” you posit, quite contrary. Part of you is… proud? Weird. The rest of you is resentful, which is more familiar territory. “Perhaps you are the sole thing standing between the Underground and destruction. A hero simply doing what is necessary to save everyone.”

There’s something… very tempting, after all, about making your actions someone else’s responsibility. Your failures and successes being theirs vice versa. Then again, isn’t that what they’re doing by saying that it’s not _your_ fault you wanted to kill them? You wanted to _kill them_. You didn’t trip and accidentally murder everyone else, either.

They make an impressively long noise of frustration, but then again, they don’t need to breathe. You find sadistic enjoyment in eliciting it.

_*I hope not,_ they say eventually, bitterly. _*Bad things happen when I try to be._

They don’t elaborate further. The next five minutes are filled with the sounds of cloth and water as you slowly make your way down the hall.

_*If we hurt everyone who hurt us,_ they whisper eventually. _*And they did the same… When will it stop hurting?_

“You’re _trying_ ,” you realise aloud. “You’re making an effort.” This really _isn’t_ easy for them. You still feel this is a terrible idea on their part. You don’t go back to a dog that’s bitten you and try to pet it. You leave the dog alone. You get out of there. Then again, it’s not like your head has an escape hatch or as they’ve pointed out, they’d have used it. They _have_ to make nice with you and hope it works if they don’t want to possess you. The thought makes you a little ill.

_*It’s not that,_ they say, and amend under your skepticism. _*It’s not_ just _that._ You wring the rag out into the bucket.

Without that leash, they shouldn’t trust you at all. You could string them along. You could string them along over and over and over. Forever. Or until they finally reach their limit and stop you with force. Which would last longer? Their determination to be the better person and believe in you, or their own sanity? It didn’t work out for the skeleton. How can they just _hope?_ They don’t _know._ That ‘turns out okay in the end’ could _never_ happen.

  _*You’re trying too,_  they say, and it’s soft. You snort. _*You wouldn’t have asked me if you didn’t,_ they point out. _*You’re thinking about how to spare her, aren’t you?_

“Or I’m genuinely curious about your self-flagellating worldview,” you reply. There’s that weird clicking laugh you learnt wasn’t good last timeline. _*Yours isn’t?_ Touche. Look at the both of you.

You take a deep breath. Trying, huh? It’s not like anything else worked out for you.

“I’m worried,” you admit. They say nothing, just broadcast the sense they’re listening. “I really _didn’t_ mean to kill her, last time, regardless of the reason. And I don’t think I can just… stand there and take it.”  
  
_*You could try this hot new thing known as dodging._

“You know what I mean,” you snap. They were right, at that time. You weren’t in control. You are  one of the few things you have left that you _can_ control, and you hate it. That you don’t feel like you can trust yourself. Is this what Frisk felt like about them, that very first time?

_*There’s an easy option,_ Frisk says eventually, slowly, and very carefully not acknowledging that last thought. _*You could_ let _me do it._

You could… no. No no no. No. No way. Never again. _Never_. Frisk’s next words are solemn.

_*You’d have to trust me. You have good reasons not to trust me._ A wryness. _*I could string you along forever and ever and ever…_

Ah. So. That’s how it is, then. A higher layer of the deal. You have to _choose_ to trust each other. You’re still at the disadvantage.

_*You don’t have to!_ Frisk stresses. _*You don’t even have to face her at all!_

You drop the rag into the bucket and stand up. You are filled with determination. One left.

 

* * *

 

She hugs you, and all you can think even as you stiffen in the embrace and feel your burns receding is that you don’t deserve this.

She tells you not to come back.

You deserve _that_.

Your tenant still isn’t speaking, but that’s because they still seem to be riding the adrenalin wave. They were a tightly bound coil of unnecessary tension and nervous energy the entire time and now that it’s over and they’ve stopped shouting desperate encouragements and directions to dodge in your ear it seems to be like suddenly coming to a halt after having spent minutes spinning. There’s a sigh of shaky relief from them.

They didn’t really think you could do it, did they.

_*I did!_ Sure, sure. You allow yourself a little bit of smugness at proving them wrong. _*I’m proud of you! You didn’t need my help at all._ It’s like a little beam of sunshine in your head.

You don’t and will never want their ‘help’. They shrink back, and churn in turmoil for the next minute or so.

...this hallway sure is long.

The patch of sunlight up ahead has a golden speck that resolves itself into _that flower_. Your face twists into _something_ , because said Flower moves back a bit, but it’s evidently not whatever it is _enough_ because that smug smile stays stuck on it.

“Really, Frisk?” Is all it says, and your hands clench so tightly the nails dig in and draw blood. “Well, do what you will.”

_*He’s gone,_ Frisk quietly says after a while of you smiling at the empty patch of dirt. You exhale, and force your fists to turn back into functional hands. You unwrap and rewrap the bandage around the red crescents, despite Frisk’s squirming at the grossness.

The doors to the Ruins shut with a boom that seems more final and loud than you remember. Snow is shaken off the stark trees and you feel uneasy and realise that a noise like that would have sent birds flying in an ordinary forest.

You remember who is waiting for you here. Watching.

You try to distract yourself by carefully examining your surroundings, including this weird bush that you think might be the descendent of any topiary planted by the doors. Eh? There’s a camera in it. Feeling of being watched intensifies. Your skin crawls.

_*Oh!_ A dawning realisation from the back seat. _*That must be Alphys’s!_

Who? You wrack your brain for the name, but nothing comes to mind. It sounds a little familiar, but beyond that...

_*Um, oops. Spoilers?_

You’ve run out of ways to procrastinate and start walking down the ominous path. Don’t they ‘spoilers’ you. Your life isn’t a video game!

_*Right. Um. Alphys is a scientist lizard who really likes anime. She wanted to show me some but things happened and there really wasn’t the time._

This… this must have happened in Hotland, you think. Your memory of Hotland that time is a big red and brown blur but you think… a voice like a buzzer?

_*Yeah, that’s her!_ The cheerful enthusiasm is darkened by guilt. Good. _*Maybe we can watch some this time._ There’s an emphasis on the we that is an outstretched hand you completely ignore. If it happens, maybe they’d learn what a tsundere is.

_*Oh, so it’s an anime thing?_ They are too gleeful and they should stop. _*Are you an anime fan too? You should talk to her about it!_

Is… are they trying to set you up. Is that what is happening right now.

_*She’s already taken. Sort of. Will be taken? But you could be friends!_

Your face flushes. From the cold, of course. You pull the neck of your sweater up to cover the lower half of your face, stretching it terribly. Frisk is just internally grinning. You didn’t mean set you up on a _date!_

_*Do you want me to?_

CEASE.

Fortunately saving you further embarrassment, and _unfortunately_ reminding you of what awaits, the branch you stepped over not ten seconds ago shatters behind you. Your shoulders shoot up to your ears but you force yourself not to look around and to keep going.

The crunching of snow has never been so ominous. You keep expecting bones in your back.

_*You already have a spine._ Wow, what an astute observation.

You don’t shake the skeleton’s hand. You stare at it, and then glare at him. He seems unfazed.

* **Tough crowd. Anyway, the name’s Sans.**

You tune out his spiel despite feeling like you really shouldn’t, but you’ve heard most of this before, even if you were distracted at the time. You get back in sync with reality to catch the tail end of ***Too big to stop anyone.**

He didn’t say anything different, did he? He didn’t realise you weren’t paying attention and start  saying important things he knew you’d miss, right?  
  
_*No, it was the same_. Reassuring.

You step through the bars, and he follows. You _hate_ putting your back to him. You really, really hate it. You can’t see him. You can’t tell what he’s going to do. Your movements are tense and jerky despite Frisk trying to send calming vibes while quietly humming, because you can tell they’ll mainly doing it because they’re worried about you snapping and that sure makes you feel like a person who owns their actions!

They stop humming.

Sans mentions the conveniently shaped lamp that is entirely _too_ convenient for your liking and which you don’t trust at all, and everything goes wrong because your body stop-start jerks towards it.

Your breathing goes funny.

_*Sorry! Sorry! Habit! Sorry!_

Well, you think as a sort of rapidly tunnelling detachment folds into you. You guess you have to go kill everyone again now. You realise this is going to be your entire life from now on.

...lying down in the snow and never getting up again feels much more preferable at the moment, downright enticing even, so you just. Sink down into it. Stare up at the ‘sky’.

***Uh.**

***That works too.**

The voice is still whispering ‘sorry’ over and over. The loud skeleton comes and is loud. He doesn’t seem to spot you, or if he does he’s being polite about it and not mentioning you in favour of lambasting his brother, who puns at him in return. Your ears thank him when he leaves.

Silence. More ominous, deliberate snow crunching, when you _know_ he could move without sound if he wanted to. You can’t feel the tips of your fingers. You don’t move, but your eyes flick to Sans. You can’t afford _not_ to pay attention to his every move. The little tells of timing. For someone with that fixed poker face of a smile, he’s surprisingly easy to read.  
  
Or perhaps you’ve just had a lot of practice.

In particular, your gaze doesn’t leave his left hand. He doesn’t give any sign that he’s reading you as you’re reading him, but he doesn’t need to. He’s keeping that hand firmly in his pocket and the rest of his movements deliberately telegraphed as harmless.

You close your eyes and tip your head back. He’d know better than most under what circumstances you’d learn to watch that hand like a hawk. He knows about timelines. You wait for him to cut to the chase.

He doesn’t.

***So, kid. You might want to get going.**

***Unless you want to listen to more of my hilarious jokes.**

You open your eyes. He’s winking at you, left eye closed. “Yes,” you say, looking back up at the ceiling.

***You sure? I’m all out of free ones.  
*You’re gonna have to buy a ticket for this routine.**

He’s testing you. “How much?” It’s a monotone, so it’s debatably a question at all. Frisk has stopped whispering and is curled up in a ball but you can tell they’re curious about this despite themselves.

***Only 5G. What do you say?**

“Sure.” You can afford that. Monsters keep throwing money at you for some reason, it’s bizarre. You’re not even doing anything to warrant it.

***Whoops, did I say 5G? I meant 50G.**

You don’t have _that_ much, but you also don’t care. “Sure.”

***You absolutely sure? Price just went up while you were talking. 500G.”**

You turn your head to stare him dead in the little bits of light in his eyesockets. “Sans,” you say. “I am absolutely sure.” Frisk makes a tiny noise like they’re trying not to giggle.

***5000G?** Sans says, and his grin looks more like an actual grin. “5000G,” you reply firmly. You wonder how much longer you can get away with this ridiculousness. Frisk has gone from trying not to giggle to trying to muffle the giggles as much as possible.

***Looks like I forgot a couple of zeroes. It’s actually 500,000G.**

He’s not _that_ funny but there’s the sheer delight in seeing just how far this can go. “I will get you that 500,000G,” you say with absolute seriousness.

***You mean you don’t have it on you now? I’m absolutely shocked. 500,000,000G.**

Frisk has gone from ‘trying not to lose it’ to losing it. “I left it in my other sweater,” you say. He shrugs.

***50,000,000,000G. Final offer.**

What? You haven’t been bargaining. You tell him you’ll buy the ticket. He says that’s impressive because that’s more money than there is in the entire Underground. Just call you Midas.

“Will you take an IOU?” you facetiously offer in turn. He winks again. Same eye. ***Sure, if you’ll take one from me.**

Was. Was that flirting. You consult Frisk, who apparently is the resident expert here.

_*He didn’t mean it that way,_ they say confidently, and you get the feeling they’d be leaning their elbows on your shoulder. _*Did you_ want _him to be?_ No. Never. He _killed_ you. Why would you ever… _no._

***I’m just ribbing ya,** Sans says at the same time as Frisk’s slightly chastened _*I’m just teasing._ , resulting in a echo induced headache. ***Really, though, would be great of you if you could indulge my bro. He’s been working on those puzzles for _weeks_. It’d mean a lot to him.**

You think of arms spread wide. You shrug one shoulder. You like puzzles. You’ll play along, you guess.

_*There’ll be dogs, too! That you can pet!_ Yes, Frisk, you _know._

Sans relaxes. ***Thanks, kiddo. I guess I’ll see you up ahead.** He turns and goes the opposite direction. Finally, some peace and quiet. You settle back down into the snow that is now a kind of slush and close your eyes.

_*Um._

_*You aren’t going to go?_

Why don’t they _make_ you go? They reach for the reins and hesitate.

_*Was that actually permission or…?_

No, no it wasn’t. But it’s not as if they actually need it now, do they? They cringe.

_*It was an accident. I won’t do it again, I swear._ Like you haven’t heard that before. _*I mean it!_ And that. They deflate. _*I just forgot._

Your teeth grind a little. Forgot they weren’t you. That this body wasn’t _theirs_. That it had an owner. How many more times are they going to ‘forget’?

_*None!_

How sure can they be of that. If it was so easy they did it by accident as they profess, then they cannot absolutely guarantee you that can they? And if they can, then they had enough deliberate control to not do it and _did it anyway._ Either way, your mistrust is well-placed.

They squirm, and you feel dark satisfaction. At least you have _some_ power here. Which one was it, Frisk?

_*...accident. I’ll really try. I’m sorry._

You don’t believe them. Cold water is soaking into your sweater and making you shiver involuntarily. It’s grounding. Familiar.

_*...you can’t lie here forever. If you don’t want to do this you could go to Sans…_ Watch you. And Sans is going to be of no help whatsoever.

_*You’ll freeze to death._

Would that be so bad? Certainly, you’ve read that it’s a pleasant way to die. You feel warm and sleepy… and then just don’t wake up. You think you’re frightening your passenger. You don’t feel sorry about that at all.

Then again, you’d just automatically load from your last save. The last time you were taken over was the first time you’d done it deliberately. You didn’t even know you could, until then.

Somewhere, the world is laughing at you. You get up, and trudge forward. Time to get this over with.

 

You pick up the lamp and drop it down the bridged pit before you go.

 


	11. Sweet And A Little Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is white. Not everything is soft.

There are indeed dogs to pet. And pet. And pet and pet and pet and pet. Mechanically, almost automatically at first, but there’s something about the feel of fur under fingers. 

...you might have a serious problem, you think, as you find yourself wrapped in it like a boa constrictor’s coils. It’s warm and smells of dog. 

_*Hello there!_

Lesser Dog is licking your face like you’re made of steak and you’re pretty sure your hair is doing some weird things, and you reach up and pet again. Lesser Dog makes a noise unknown to any human or animal on this earth and its tail is wagging so fast it’s barely visible. The snow around the appendage has been completely cleared. 

For once Frisk isn’t irritatingly pushing you to keep going forward or telling you to search a billion snowpoffs like your hands aren’t freezing already or relentlessly attempting to friendship you with people who smell of bones and ancient tomatoes. They seem just as distracted as you are, at the moment. 

_*Who’s a good dog? You are!_

You scratch behind Lesser Dog’s ears and it presses its head into you with a foghorn sound of pleasure. This is something you didn’t realise you needed. 

“I killed you, you know,” you whisper conversationally into Lesser Dog’s fur, still scratching. Lesser Dog tilts its head at you and whines in concerned confusion before licking your face and pressing its head into you again for more scratches. You bury your face in its fur. Dogs don’t judge. Even when they should.

 

...you reluctantly disentangle yourself from the loops of dog. Lesser Dog runs off to do… something. 

Dogspeed.

 

* * *

 

You walk past the blue rabbit. You don’t need to be any _more_ cold. The creams didn’t taste like anything much last time. Then again, very little did, over the acrid dust.

_*He has chocolate flavour._ _If you ask._  
  
You stop. You turn back. On the other hand, more healing items are always useful. 

_*Mmhm._

Shush. You buy three, and wait until there’s no monsters in sight before slowly, meticulously unpeeling the wrapper and taking a small nibble. It’s cold, but it’s chocolate. It’s been a long time. 

_*Is it as sweet as you?_

You give the nearest pine tree a Look, taking another bite. 

_*It’s what the wrapper says!_

You look at the wrapper as you slowly fold the Nice Cream back up before you’re tempted to finish it off entirely - you still don’t have any buffering LOVE and it feels strange and vulnerable at this point. Somehow even the _handwriting_ manages to seem aggressively cheerful. You think this would be the most tooth-rottingly saccharine thing here, but Frisk exists. 

_*Aw._

_*Are you calling_ me _sweet?_

You’re not answering that. 

You wonder if when you eat it, they can taste it. 

_*I can’t,_ they say, like whale song. _*It changes but… I can see what you see and hear what you hear and feel what you feel, but I can’t taste what you taste even if I try. Just the cold, and the texture._

You imagine them brimming, boiling under the surface of your skin, close but unable to pierce it. You want to dig your fingernails in and pry under, draw blood and peel it off in thick strips. 

They lie their weight on top of your mind like they’re hoping to smother it like a fire blanket and continue as if they are not. _*I have to pretend. But it’s okay! I remember what chocolate tastes like, I think._   
_  
*Sweet and a little bitter, right?_

Depends on its darkness. Your fingernails are digging into the upper arms of your sweater. Pry off the muscles and expose the bone. Strip off the protective flaps and folds and unspool your guts. 

_*Um. Sometimes I feel almost alive again,_ they say, and their cheerfulness is now strained. _*Sometimes I forget I’m not, that I’m not you again._ Your breath puffs out into the cold air in front of you. _*But sometimes it’s… wrong. Everything’s wrong. This isn’t right, it’s not_ me. _This isn’t mine. I can’t change it. I can’t leave. It feels..._

Pluck your beating heart from your chest and squeeze it until it dies. Methodically wrench out your organs and arrange them in front of you in haruspic patterns. Meticulously dismantle yourself like picking the petals off a flower, one by one. Loves you, LOVEs you... 

_*Do... you want me to stop you?_

You shake your head. You’re grinding your teeth to acrid dust. You’re gripping your upper arms as hard as you can. You’re clawing red lines up and down your front through the sweater. There’s blood on the snow. 

_*No there’s not!_

Look again. No blood. Just snow. Breathe. _Breathe_. 

They lie, still.

 

* * *

 

You look at the curling sparkling arches of snow. Frisk emanates impressment. 

The fact that the dog can only endlessly attempt to make the perfect snowdog and never achieve it... fills you with determination.

 

* * *

 

The loud skeleton. 

_*Papyrus_

The loud skeleton, _Papyrus,_ is in front of you. There’s a nice little irony in his attempting to harm you while you refuse to do the same. Funny how when you least deserve mercy is apparently the only time he gives it. Everybody respects a _threat._

Fortunately, his attacks are ridiculously easy to avoid, although something important is niggling at the back of your brain. Something you’ve forgotten. 

_*I still say we should have flirted with him._

It’s definitely not that. Would that have even helped? What’s with this _we._

_*No, but we could have gone on a date later!_

You consider that a metaphysical bullet dodged in addition to the magic ones. How would that even work, anyway? It’s not like you can smooch a skeleton. It’d be just sort of… pressing lips on teeth. Yeuch. 

_*So you’ve put some thought into skeleton smooches._ _  
_ _*I see._

You think you liked it better when they were yelling at you. Now is not the time! 

This next attack is just blue. You don’t even make an attempt to dodge. What was the… 

You slam face first into the ground and _everything is gold and your body is screaming but you have to jump, jump. Watch the hand, watch the hand, don’t you dare take your eyes off something is wrong the pattern is wrong the bastard has - !_

 

You wake up in a shed. You have a massive headache. 

_*Ohthankgod you’re awake!_ It comes out in a massive rush. _*How many fingers am I holding up?_

“None?” you mumble. Where are you. You don’t recognize anything about this place. 

_*Okay good, you aren’t concussed. Probably. I think you’re supposed to shine a light into the person’s eyes but… mmnh. No mirrors._

You stand up, and throw out an arm to lean against the wall when the room spins. You blink away the mandalic rotating triangles and head over to the note on the floor. You can sense Frisk examining as much as your field of vision will allow with naked curiosity.  
  
_*I haven’t been in here before either._

Papyrus even writes in Papyrus. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting there. You glance at the bed and the food bowl before crumpling the paper up and throwing it at the window. The room is only slightly less freezing than outside. 

It’s still not the worst accommodations you’ve ever had. You pick the bits of sausage out of the food bowl and eat them. You contemplate your life and how you’ve eaten actual garbage to survive and then eat as much of the kibble as you can stomach and dump the rest into your pockets. Surprisingly, Frisk doesn’t comment on this. 

_*I wonder if the Annoying Dog has been in here._

That’s a little harsh for Frisk. Which one is the Annoying one? 

_*The one that took-  the one dangling from the rope._

Really? It didn’t seem Annoying to you. If anything, it looked like the _least_ Annoying thing there. There’s a mental shrug. 

_*Papyrus named it, I think. It keeps stealing his bones._   
  
You picture Papyrus hopping after the small white dog on one leg while it runs off with the other, and snort into your sleeves despite yourself. Frisk giggles too.  
  
You end up in the shed two more times before he lets you go out of _pity_ . Your pride stings as much as the bruises given in another time this would have been _easy_ , but it’s a relief not to have to bother with this anymore. You take the opportunity given, and _run._


	12. The Hour Hand Of A Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waterfall is a place of secrets, some more hidden than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Ordinarily I was planning to wait to update until after I'd finished writing the Waterfall section (the word doc has reached 100 pages and it's nearly done!) but come on. It's the Anniversary! Time to celebrate with some pain!)

Somehow, you end up in Grillby’s.

You wonder if making it so you have to walk all the way back out of town again is the blue skeleton’s idea of a joke.

It turns out the skeleton’s idea of a joke is still the most juvenile thing possible. You refuse to react at all as the sound rises and then peters out and he tells you to keep it. You can tell this unnerves him a little.  _ Good.  _ It’s  _ sans _ humor. The side of your mouth quirks a little despite itself at the thought and he relaxes infinitesimally again to his ground state of being a fuck miser.

You pocket the cushion. You have an idea.

_ *What is it? _ __  
__  
Spoilers! Frisk grumbles a little, but you ignore them to focus on Sans. The patrons would react if anything happened, making this neutral ground (You wonder if Grillby himself would intervene. You wonder what it would be like to fight Grillby.) but that doesn’t mean letting down your guard. Your guard is so high they’re a frozen armor-clad corpse at the top of Everest.

_ *Cheery. _

No commentary from the peanut gallery. 

You’re asked your choice of meal and they chime in immediately anyway.

***** _ Fries! _

You ask for a burger.

_ *I knew you would do that. _

They are extremely smug for someone who couldn’t taste it even if you  _ were  _ going to eat it now. They deflate a bit at the reminder, to your own answering smugness. Two can play at that game, and you play to win. You can tell Frisk is procedurally generating a rebuttal to this, but you end up pulling them in with you when you get distracted by Sans combing?? his skull?

???

Frisk hums in amusement.  _ *I can’t believe this is the weirdest thing Underground to you. _

It’s just… so utterly purposeless? What is the point?? You end up missing the question he asks entirely and staring blankly at an expectant skull. Something about his brother? You know how much the skeleton cares about his brother, but also know how he won’t lift a phalange even if you’re about to kill him, so just answering wrong isn’t likely to start something. You hate that you have to reassure yourself of this.

“He’s loud,” you end up saying bluntly. It’s undoubtedly true and the red skeleton’s most prominent and least endearing feature.

_ *So you  _ do  _ think Papyrus has endearing features? _

Where did old, angry, not-at-all-an-aspiring-matchmaker Frisk go. You’re starting to want them back badly. Did you say endearing? You meant enduring. On account of how you  _ murdered him  _ before it could go on much longer. They reward you with an  _ *Uhuh _ which only aggravates you further. It’s ‘you didn’t really want’ all over again.

...you really need to stop zoning out when Sans is talking at you. He’s deliberate and subtle with everything he says and does,  _ not  _ doing so is downright idiotic, and you have an aversion to consistently relying on Frisk to giving you an accurate replay.  _ Focus _ , Chara.

***... doesn’t really believe in inside volume**

Oh good, you didn’t miss much. The way he’s looking at you… you can tell he noticed and is choosing not to comment, and it makes you want to kick him.

***part of why my bro’s so cool, yanno?**

***he’s so enthusiastic about life, it just spills out in everything he does**

***like that Royal Guard outfit**

***he wears it every day, even in the shower**

***but uh**

***if it bothers ya, just let him know**

The way he says that, utterly nonchalant, bizarrely makes you think for some reason of blunted fireplace instruments, and while he looks like he might continue you clench your teeth together and pointedly turn from him to look to where Grillby is returning with your orders. That was quick. You wonder if the fire monster has some pre-made and just heats them up with his flames. Sans for his part seems unfazed by your unspoken snubbing.

***grubs up**

Sans literally  _ skulls _ an entire bottle of ketchup (because in no way are you accepting any kind of food directly from him) and the fresh smell, as opposed to the days old general aroma lingering around him like a persistent dog… you aren’t prepared for it. Smells of gold, and dust and bones and a gash in blue. You lean over the burger you want to eat even less to let your hair fall forward. Doing so exposes the back of your neck and your back itself but you’d rather that than he see and read your expression.

Your hands gripping the countertop hard enough to leave lines from the edges in your palms probably give you away anyway, but again, he doesn’t comment. Frisk sends a pulse of wordless  _ comfort-worry _ at you, because of  _ course _ they would, and you slap it down harshly. You’re fine and it’s none of their business.

Sans launches into a spiel about a brother you don’t care about right now. You just want to leave with the absolute pith of your being, but he brought you here for a reason and you doubt it’s to extol Papyrus’s dedication, or at least not  _ only _ that. You’re morbidly curious despite yourself, and it’s enough to outweigh the possible satisfaction from the expression on his face if you just got up and walked out right now. You wait, (im)patiently, for him to get to the point.

 

All desire for him to just get on with it flees completely when the world greys and narrows. Ha ha, be careful what you wish for, huh, Chara?

The bar is utterly silent. Except for… the faint hiss of rain? No, static. It’s tinnitic. You aren’t sure if you’re hearing it at all or if your brain is just desperately trying to fill the void of sound with  _ something _ .

Frisk is suddenly an alert spike trying to push forward for a better view, ending up in your peripherals. Your head throbs. Your fingernails dig further into the counter-top.

_ *They’ve all… stopped. _

You’ll take their hushed, apprehensive word for it. You’re not taking your eyes off this skeleton with dark tunnels for eyes and no light at the end of them in sight.

***so**

***you should introduce me to your little buddy sometime**

What feels like every single tiny hair on your body trying to escape your skin floods over you in a prickling wave. The way he says it is mafia-casual, playing as an observation as idle as the rest of him. You have no idea what your face is doing, other than hosting a thin, stretched-tight smile in the futile hopes of attracting other, more rational customers.

_ *Chara, get out of there! Now! _

You can’t move. Of course you can’t. You’ve been pinned to the ground by bones and your own soul as your literal  _ downfall _ . All you can do is watch your life tick down and pool across the floor and hope he gets close enough for you to spit blood hard enough to peel his bony hands from his cold hard grip on tenuous existence. Stage III hate froth leaking from your lips. Foreign bones scraping against familiar. You can’t  _ breathe, _ you’re  _ drowning in yourself _ . You don’t feel anything at all.

_ *Sorry about this, Chara! _

That  _ noise _ again. It won’t go away. You hate it. You hate it so much.

_ *...I know, I know. I’m sorry _

You feel, with a great disconnect, the world spin as your body lurches forward. You… didn’t do that? But you must have. You did it. You did it and can’t remember. God Chara, why can’t you do anything right? Honestly. You’re lying on the floor. When did that happen? Why are you on the floor? It’s hard and it hurts a little.

_ *Stop fighting me! I’m trying to  _ help _ you! _

***uh, yikes**

***that sure is… something**

***… you alright there, kid?**

Stop struggling. Trying to help you. Yes. Knows best. There’s a good. Something salvageable in there after all.

You wrench your head out of an unknown grip and sink your teeth into your arm down to the bone, it feels like, and scream into your flesh.

***whoa**

***okay**

***this is happening**

***gonna take that as a ‘no’**

Reality comes back into colour with a  _ pop _ that is more whole-body sensation than sound and you squinch your eyes shut and start viciously sawing the sharp catches of your molars back and forth. You can taste blood. The reek of it. Who knew you had so much in you?

_ *Stop, stop! I’ve stopped, okay? I’ve stopped, it’s okay. Please. You’re safe, I was wrong.  _

_ *Please. _

_ *...he’s gone. _

It sounds garbled. Underwater. You can pick out the individual sounds but they refuse to form sentences that make sense. There’s voices and shadows around you, over you. You’re in danger. You’re exposed. You curl and shrink back against something solid, every muscle in you tensing. Fear floods you, mixes with your own, ignites. Where’s your weapon? Where’s your armor? We have to fight, they’re killing us we can’t hurt them we have to make them stop! Dust, seeping dust, just enough, just enough to get away!

When a hesitant, concerned paw reaches out for you, flickering with inexpert particles of green, you rake your claws across it, and it hurriedly withdraws. You snarl. There’s hushed whispers, and murmurs, and orange.

When the crowd parts, you don’t care why. You spring forward and run and run until you physically can’t anymore, and collapse, legs quivering, breathing wild, in a half-bed of grey rushes.

You lie there.

There’s the sounds of flowing water.  _ Tink _ s of drops from the ceiling. A quietness.

 

How much time passes, you have no idea.

 

* * *

 

_ *... _

 

“Yo!”   
  
Hnnn.  _ No. _ Go away. You don’t want to do anything involving people right now. Or talking. Or moving. Not existing sounds nice too.

“Oh man, did you trip too? These walkways get super slippery, ha ha. Do you need help getting up? Or, oh! Is this that lying down thing?”

You roll onto your back, snapping several stems. “Give the kid a hand,” you say snidely to the ceiling, and wait for your tenant to chide you. They don’t. They’re a pillbug bruise at the back of your mind, back to you. “Two, even.” Still nothing.  _ Good. _ Maybe it will stay that way. “Yes, I’m lying on the ground and feeling like garbage. I recommend it.”

The monster kid (you never got their name, you realise) seems completely unfazed by your aura of general unpleasantness. Indeed they sort of… flop down a short distance next to you, close enough to make your ‘someone’s there’ radar itch and prickle at you but far away enough that they aren’t technically violating your personal space enough to warrant a response. They wriggle a bit to get comfortable and go still.

You start counting the little crystals studded in the nearest wall, unable to avoid keeping one ear trained in the kid’s direction. You’re up to twenty three when you first hear them shift a bit, and then you hear the rustle of cloth as they fidget and squirm. And then  _ keep _ doing that, at increasingly shorter intervals.

“Hey,” they whisper, which means they’re speaking at something resembling an inside voice. “Am I doing it right? I don’t really feel like garbage.”

“Picture yourself,” you say, unsure why you’re even indulging this, because you  _ know _ they’re only going to take it as the encouragement they don’t need any more of. “As a piece of trash in Waterfall, constantly at the whims of an uncaring current, doomed to cycle around and around forever under its force, with no hope of release.”

_ *... _

“Oh, okay.” The lizard sinks their head back, and is quiet for a record half a minute before-. “What if someone comes and picks up the trash, I mean me, though? My sister’s finding things like that all the time!”

“Then the refuse has simply exchanged one prison for another,” you tell the wall crystals. “After all, your sister doesn’t take things she isn’t intending to put to use, correct?”   
  
“I guess…” they say. Look at you. You wonder how much EXP you just got for killing the mood. Such as it even was.

 

There’s voices. The loud skeleton and the fsh. You groan and put your hands over your ears and roll to put your back to them even as the monster kid perks up.

“Oh! It’s Und-mmmph!”   
  
Their snout is extremely awkward to mash closed, but you manage it. You let go of their jaws to place a finger to your lips. They nod excitedly and rapidly but enthusiastically, and their tag wags hard enough to make the rushes rattle. So much for stealth.   
  
You give up and close your eyes. The fish can spear you here and now if she wants.

Eventually, there’s a scaled snout nudging at you; your eyes snap open and you whirl to smack it down. Monster Kid manages to reel back to avoid the strike (how much health did they have again?), only to overbalance and fall over.

“Whoops! Haha, sorry about that, yo but… she’s gone! You missed her! I guess you were too busy feeling like garbage.” Somehow, that is utterly devoid of sass. “I’m going up ahead to get a better look! Follow me if you wanna!” They race off, trip, pull themselves up, and continue.

You aren’t following them. You’re conveniently heading in the same direction. They’re long gone.

 

* * *

 

You pick your way carefully through the marsh. Your left shoe has been claimed as a toll of passage by the viscous black muck underneath the cavern-cold water that has crept up your trousers all the way to your sweater.

It’s horrible. You don’t care.

_ *...you should bandage your bite marks. _

_ *This mud probably isn’t very good for them... _

Back again, are they? So quiet, and not quiet  _ enough. _ You change direction abruptly, haul yourself out of the water onto a stone pathway. You assume the search pattern, that brisk back and forth and an aggravating musclebound monster encounter. The only highlight of that is tricking the walking tub into spraying it in the face with suds.

_ *...what are you looking for? _

You ignore them, plucking the bridge seeds from their bases and transferring them to the water one by one, until you stand in front of a bench next to an echo flower. Here: a place you can be  _ sure _ you won’t be bothered.

You crouch down. The quiche is still there. You pick it up and toss it into the water and watch it sink. Then you crack your knuckles. You’re cold and diamond-hard inside, and you can tell it causes recollection of dust everywhere in your watcher.

You know how to hide what you’re planning from them now. Their apprehension shades to uncertain  _ fear.  _ Vindictive satisfaction winds its way around your heart. You see, you’ve  _ noticed  _ something about them.

You calmly unwrap the bandage from your palm and knuckles and rewrap it around the bite marks, which causes a flicker of relief under the worry. It disappears entirely when you whirl and  _ punch _ the wall with all your strength. Hot, shrill, pain screams up your arm and you do it again. And again.

_ *Stop! _

_ *Chara, stop! _

They press forward, and you… well nothing  _ physical  _ happens, nothing with any basis in reality other than your own mind, but you grab them and their momentum and  _ shove _ them into your pain, and the next time your hand connects you don’t feel it at all except in the most disconnected sense of ‘oh, something’s snapped in there.’ You start laughing as Frisk cries out in surprise and shock and the pain you should have, and smack it dead into the rock again and again and again, harder and harder. You think. No pain means it’s difficult to tell. Several more things give, and Frisk  _ screams _ and struggles but you’re holding them there, holding them down, holding them under like you’re drowning them and they’re bucking and kicking for air under your grip.

You look at your thoroughly mangled hand with a fascinated and vicious curiosity while they pant heavily without lungs, still pinned, and you slowly, ever so slowly,  _ flex _ it. They moan in agony.

You think you like this arrangement. Yes, very much. You think you’ll keep things like this. Your distraction costs you.

_ *Let. Me. GO! _

They surge up and throw you off. The sensation of the lump of muscle and bone and torn up skin currently taking residence on the end of your arm existing as it is slams into you full force, you think with a little extra kick from Frisk’s end in there, and you bite your tongue, hard, in a sharp inhale and a thin keen you can’t call back.

If they’re going to presume rights over you then they need to face the  _ consequences _ . A body comes with things like this, does it not? You push back at them, but you’ve lost the element of surprise and it becomes a bitter internal struggle of equal and opposing forces.

_ *You didn’t have to do that! _

Hypocrite. You abruptly shift focus from the hand to your head just as you likewise smack it against the wall, and they yelp, caught off guard.

_ *Listen! If you’d asked…! _

_ Hypocrite.  _ You flip things again, sending them back into your hand as you drag the twisted fingers  _ hard  _ against and into the surface. They howl. Ha ha, what a crybaby? This is  _ nothing _ to spears and bones.

This time when you switch things up, they’re ready, and roll with it, flinging you in turn into the full sensation of kicking this poor abused, blood-streaked wall with a socked foot.  _ Ouch. _

_ *You’re only hurting  _ yourself! _ Stop it! _

Oh yes. Can’t let their precious vessel get damaged. They’ll need it in perfect condition for when they’re done with any pretence towards true altruism or restraint. Can I help, Chara, I only want to help you, why are you being so difficult you little, I know what’s best,  _ hold still _ , look at what you’ve made me do.

They’re no better than  _ them _ .

Frisk’s attempts to pin you cease abruptly with a hollow-cheeked snap-frost-colour. You take full advantage of the opportunity and even as they start to curl in on themselves you haul them into your stomping on the broken hand at an extremely awkward angle with your shoed foot, really grinding in the heel. Quite possibly even healing magic can’t salvage this mess of a thing now, and you really don’t care. It’s one less thing they can use. Have fun opening doors, Frisk!

The noise they make makes your head ring. You smile.

There’s a beat of pained disorientation, and then they flare with determination. You can practically picture that sword-edge gaze taking shape. You prepare yourself to push them back in when they try to turn the tables.

...they don’t. Instead, they cement themselves further in. Your next strike to your hand with the palm of the other as the hammer and the floor as the anvil isn’t as hard as it could have been, in your bewilderment. They hiss, but don’t budge. Caught off guard, it feels like you’ve been running a battering ram at a door at full speed only for it to open as you get there and you’re going too fast to stop.

You’re confused and  _ pissed off _ , by both this development and the fact that you don’t know why.

_ *You said you liked this arrangement. _ There’s little inflection in the tone. Shadings of defiance and a coldness in their stolidness.

Fire flares and spits in you, directionless. You grab one of the ‘fingers’ and pull as hard as you can. Even broken into crooked bits, it doesn’t want to budge, but you persevere, using your teeth to snap the strands of the ligaments. Your face quickly is covered in blood. You probably look like an axe murderer. It’s continued, dogged attachment frustrates you, and you _ twist. _

Frisk has been trying not to make a sound the entire time, and failing.

You give up on the mutilated thing and force the remaining digits open as you walk behind the bench and brace yourself to  _ push _ . It’s heavy, and you’re small for your age, but inch by inch the feet of it leave white lines on the stone as it screeches loudly towards the water, teeters on the edge, and tips in under your guidance.

The water is too shallow to submerge it, so it stays there, upside down.

You whirl from it and stalk stiff-legged to the echo flower. ‘* **I just couldn’t handle th-** ’ it manages to say before you curl the four vaguely responsive fingers around its stalk and rip it out of the ground and start shredding it piece by piece with your teeth and good hand. Glowing blue-white sap quickly contrasts your blood. It tastes  _ terrible  _ \- bitter and chemically warning, like eating the inside of a glowstick. You spit bioluminescence onto the floor.

_ *Are you done? _ Their ‘voice’ has a strained note under their attempt at impartiality. You slam your ‘hand’ once last time against the wall, leaving a dual coloured streak, and then sink down with your back against it. You’re done. For now.

You look at your ‘hand’. Utterly useless. It must hurt a great deal. They’ve stolen your pain from you.

_ *You gave it _ .

You laugh until you wheeze. You sure did! Now give it back.

_ *No. _

You start chewing on your fingers again, but even the cry they let slip gives you little satisfaction, and you let it drop to your side. There’s no feedback. It’s just foreign, mashed, meat. Maybe not even a part of you.

They really are a masochist.

_ *Pot, kettle. _

_ *...sorry, that was uncalled for. _

No, no, go on. They don’t. The two of you sit there in silence as the sound of dripping water echoes around you, sourceless and amplified a thousandfold.

_ *You’ve been dying a lot.  _ No shit.

_ *So maybe, if I take your pain, things will be… _ you can feel them fumbling for a word.  _ *Not better but... _

_ *I deserve to feel it, for what I did to you. _

_ They _ deserve it, huh? Such a saint, a martyr, a  _ hero. _ You recall they hate being called that, which is why you said it,  and sure enough there’s a flinch. You know what? Fine. Fine! You don’t care. They can do what they want, pain-wise. It’s no skin off your hand.

_ *The nice-cream bunny is here somewhere… _

Subtle, they are not. They’re just going to have to put up with it. You flick some drops of blood away and stand up.

When you come across a lonely telescope, you kick it over.

 

* * *

 

The plaques on the walls are in a language you don’t understand. Whatever they say probably isn’t relevant. If they turn out to be a puzzle clue for a puzzle you don’t remember you’ll just backtrack. You didn’t need them previously, as far as you recall.

Or… you can feel Frisk eyeing them. As much as the direction you’re looking will allow. Is there something they wish to share with the class? They seem to jerk back to reality and some emotion colours them. It’s not guilt, and it’s not shock, and it’s not dread, and you’re at a loss to identify it.   
  
_ *I can read the language! _

_ *Do you want me to? _

You debate. Do you really trust them to give you an accurate rendition of what’s on the walls? No. Do you want to get back at them by dragging your feet as much as possible in every conceivable way? Absolutely. Check the halls with boards of writing.

...so that’s what that lineface expression feels like from the inside. But they oblige.

_ *...they’re very faded. _

_ *This one says the plaques are about the War. _

You are loath to appear ignorant about anything in front of anyone, but it’s not as if you can help it if your minds are smashed together like a ten car pileup.  _ What _ War? World War Three?

_ *Um. _

_ *World War Three? _

You don’t respond to the unspoken question and they shake themselves a little and continue.

_ *The War of Humans and Monsters _ _  
_ _ *It was ages ago but… it’s why they’re here. _

_ *This… this one says how strong humans are. _

You didn’t need notifying of that.

_ *This one says that human souls remain after death. _

Well  _ that’s _ not correct. The sight and feeling of yours shattering into bits over and over and  _ over _ isn’t something you’re going to forget. They avert attention from the thought.

_ *... _

_ *This one says monsters can absorb human souls and become powerful. _

That… it makes so many things suddenly click into sense.

Why Papyrus wanted to capture you. Why Toriel said monsters would try to kill you, and was right. The fragments you remember of the fish’s speech. ‘After my soul’. Not metaphorical at all. Not a corruption. Not a weak point to be struck, but the  _ goal _ . You… you sit down under the plaque. You thought it was just because you were human and dangerous. Because humans are evil, untrustworthy, vile,  _ deadly _ animals. You’re just a kid and look at what you did, imagine… an adult! They’d have  _ no _ chance!

Thick,  _ angry  _ bile churns and rises in your gorge as you cross your arms over your knees and grip the flesh of an upper arm tightly with your good hand hard enough to make white lines. You thought was they did was justified. But if they were just doing it to ‘become powerful’, like human souls are some  _ commodity  _ down here…! Why are you even  _ trying _ to spare them!

Frisk is feathered in worry. Not worry for you.  _ *Not all of them want your SOUL! _

Is that supposed to make you wish otherwise? Try  _ harder _ , freeloader. How is this ‘what was best for someone else’? Certainly, you aren’t going to argue giving your soul to someone else would benefit them and… you don’t know why this enrages you so much. That first reason hasn’t stopped being true. You’d be dead, either way. You wouldn’t be able to care what happened to bits of you afterwards. And of course, Frisk might be lying entirely.

Frisk seems very uncomfortable. Good.

_ *This um. This next… _

_ *This one you don’t need me for. _

Their presence winks out like an ancient screen you saw in a museum once, a ‘tink!’ and a white line and a fading white dot. They’re still there, you can feel them watching, but… they’ve checked out.

Their silence is something you’ve been craving and enjoying ever since you realised what they were, and  _ especially _ after everything they’ve done. Why does it bother you now? You shake the thought out of your head, and examine the fifth plaque.

...they’re right. It’s very faded, and you don’t need them. Instead of blocky lettering, it’s a drawing.

You don’t know what  _ of _ , but the lines and the way the light and shadows fall on them and are emitted from them makes it seem like it’s moving. You find yourself walking out of there very briskly despite your vow to dawdle.

You quickly remember it when an armored silhouette comes into view. The wrong eye is glowing. You  _ run. _ Blue. The electric crackle of spears. You… don’t have your shield. You’re red.  _ Run. _ No,  _ fight _ . Running doesn’t work.

_ *Chara! _

You draw the toy knife… you didn’t pick up anything better? Stupid, why did you do that? Where is your LV? What  _ happened? _ What is wrong with you?

_ *Chara, you can’t fight her here! _

They mean they don’t  _ want _ you to fight her. You turn, and feel for the hum of Undyne’s magic, and  _ duck _ , don’t bother looking to see where it flies, and take a run-up and leap. And fall. You crack your chin on the stone of the opposite bank and see stars and slump into the water, dazed even without pain. You breathe in. It floods your nose and mouth. Frisk actually panics? Weird. You cough, and it gets worse. You feel unreal and floating. You are, right?

Something closes on the back of your sweater and hauls you up and you suck in air and struggle. You’re small and nimble and you’ve killed ten times better than her but you can’t  _ move _ , you’re pinned, you’re green. You aren’t green? Your hand only closes around metal and you actually manage to leave scratches in the armor with your nails. Where’s the knife? You dropped it? Ugh. How could you do that?

_ *Chara, listen to me carefully. _

_ *You can still talk your way out of this! _

Exhausted, you hang limp as a single eye examines you critically. Talking? This go is done and there’s no salvaging it, so you might as well let things happen and try again properly after.

_ *You can! _

_ *She’s all about honor and justice, right? _

_ *There’s no honor in beating an unarmed opponent! _

_ *All you need to do is goad her! _

Hahaha, yeah. Honor and justice. She  _ is _ the heroine, after all. This is what happens to villains, is it not? It’s well deserved.

_ *... _

_ *Not this time. _

Does that really make a difference? You’re still that person who killed an entire people, even if no one else remembers. They adopt a sense of navel-gazing.

_ *Is anyone the same person they were, though? _

Wow, so profound, unsui. You’re pretty sure they just don’t want to feel the first-hand agony of a skewering death. You’re extremely tempted to die just for that reason.

“Sheesh,” Undyne mutters under her breath, shaking you a little. “This is kind of pathetic.”

...that’s what does it, in the end. A spark of ignition in your chest and an answering flicker of yellow. Not the best place to save, but whatever. You start wriggling again, taking care to hide what you’re planning from Frisk, to their hopeful disgruntlement, and when you think you have it… you don’t need to talk. You have an ace up your sleeves.

You look Undyne dead in the eye slots of her armor, smile the most simultaneously polite and yet shit-eating smile you can manage, and lift your arms up, and fall.

The water is  _ extremely cold _ but at least sodden wool isn’t weighing you down. You swim under the bridge, and wait. Fish-person she may be, but no one goes swimming in full plate armor. You just have to wait for her to take it off to chase you, and therefore become vulnerable, or to leave.

_ *Um, Chara? _

_ *How long can you hold your breath? _ _  
_ _ *Your lungs are kinda.... starting to hurt… _

_ Long enough. _ But you can feel the mounting, increasingly uncomfortable, pressure to breathe. Small bubbles involuntarily escape your lips. This will have to be enough! If you can get the bridge between you and her, you can probably have enough time to take a breath and avoid spears…

You move forward, and something tugs on your ankle. You nonsensically find yourself thinking  _ stop it, Frisk _ before the absurdity of that freezes around you. Your heart rate suddenly ceilingrockets.

_ *It’s not me! _

Bubbles escape your mouth in an unheard exclamation as you frantically twist and writhe to not only try and dislodge whatever monster has grabbed you (probably Undyne) but to get them in your sights.

...there’s nothing. Just water…? What…? The tug is on your entire body now, and you struggle futilely against it. You feel like your chest is gonna burst any second.

_ *Undertow! _

_ *Gettothesurfacegettothesurfacegettothesurfacegettothesurfacegettothesurfacegettosurfacegett _

You’re trying!

_ *Stop fighting the current, just go  _ **_up!_ **

**What do they think you’re attempting!?**

_ *Sorry! It’s just- _

The water moves faster and faster. A burst of air you can’t contain evades your weakening grip.

_ *Oh no. _

_ *Oh no. _

You don’t have the concentration to spare answering that. Every ounce of it is going towards fighting the urge to breathe in. You’re starting to feel dizzy and lightheaded.

You lose the fight just before you go over the waterfall.

 

Oh well.

 

* * *

 

You are extremely surprised to find yourself awake.

Or, well, no. Lucidity was an inevitability. It’s more accurate to say you’re surprised that you’re lying on something rather than dangling. You cough wetly. There’s a long drawn out groan and it takes a second to realise it’s not yours. Morning, Frisk. ...is it morning?

Oh. You’ve shivering. It’s very cold. That’s right, you lost your sweater. Not that it was much help to you saturated, anyway. You can hear the sound of water gently lapping behind you, and take a stab at getting up. You manage to sit up and open your eyes, at least.

The water lies farther from you than you could conceivably have washed up, even considering a strong current. You’re soaking wet but there’s no trail of water on the stone from the edge to where you lie. It’s as if you just appeared there.

There’s two possibilities, and neither of them you like. Loathe the thought of might be better. Either some unknown monster pulled you out and gave your CPR or something while you were unconscious and then just… left you there. For some reason. Or, Frisk has attempted to ‘help’ you yet again and navigated the water for you. You consider this to be the more likely.

_ *I didn’t, I swear! _

Now why is it you don’t believe them? Is their hero complex so great they would violate you again to save the life of someone who  _ can’t die? _

_ *I’m unconscious when you are, you… meany face! _

You. Start laughing uncontrollably. Your lungs spasm unhappily. Meany face. What are they, twelve?

_ *Yes! _

You can’t quite believe it’s  _ now _ , after everything, that they dredge up something vaguely resembling a personal insult. One would think the destruction of everything they have ever held dear would have produced more and stronger invective. Perhaps one day they will manage an entire swearword! They turn a dark-feeling colour and mutter something; the only word you can pick out is ‘mom’.

_ *You should probably find somewhere warm soon… _

Their deflections are about as skilled as their insults, but you stand up and march forward towards a tunnel carved in the blue stone; there’s no going back the way you came and it’s the only path. You are probably hopelessly lost.

...there’s an orange monster in the next room. You give them a wide berth to examine the large pink crystal growing on the floor to the side, the only other thing remotely of interest in this bare area. It’s largest spire comes up to your waist. You’ve never seen one like this before.

_ *! _ __  
_ *It’s like the cheese crystal! _ __  
__  
...cheese crystal? You wrack your memory, but...

_ *...that hasn’t happened yet? _

They sound incredibly disoriented. You turn from the crystal to the monster it probably belongs to. You don’t talk with people if you can help it, but if they saved your life or know how you ended up here, you’ll deal to find out.

Like every monster, they speak at you without prompting. “You… you came from outside, didn’t you? People like you are so rare… Please! Stranger! Tell me about about Outside…?”

You guess they mean the surface? Frisk seems to be in agreement. You sigh. Their face is desperate and hopeful. “The Surface is a large place.” God, you’re capitalising it now, you’ve gone native. “What do you wish to know?”

The orange monster seems haughtily nonplussed. “Huh? The “surface”? What do you mean?” You’re nonplussed in turn by the extent of their confusion. What monster  _ doesn’t  _ know of the Surface, if only in abstract? This guy, apparently? Heedless to your thoughts, they continue. “I just meant outside this room. If you haven’t noticed, my mycelium have bound me to the ground.”

Despite yourself, you glance down. They look like feet? You’re not as much of an expert on fungi as you are plants but… ugh, monsters just toss all the rules out the window don’t they? It makes about as much sense as _that flower_ with a _face._

“Please! Stranger! I’ll make this simple…” that’s about when you tune out. You tune back in to catch “ -head, and tell me what’s inside.”

_ *They want you to tell them what the room to the right is like _ , Frisk helpfully supplies, as if you couldn’t have guessed. ...you begrudgingly thank them anyway and they emanate a sickeningly disproportionate amount of happiness.

Well that was time well wasted. You don’t like doing what others want you to do at the best of times.  _ *I noticed. _ But in this case the room to the right is the only exit. Staying in the same place with this weirdo is right out. So you bemusedly leave, and the orange monster twists to wave at you as you go. Frisk mentally waves back despite this having no function whatsoever.

 

…Sans is in this room. That’s right, the  _ telescope. _ Sticky colour on your fingers. You hate his stupid smug face. You want to see if it’s possible to punch it right off his skull (it might be, but only for as long as it takes him to turn to dust). You don’t look at him. You don’t talk to him. Giving him so much as the time of day is a disaster waiting to happen.

You turn right back around again and head back into the orange monster room. You’ll let the water take you further into ha, Waterfall if you have to.

You…  _ try _ to head back into the orange monster room. It’s… not there. You pass a cheese crystal. You fight your way through rushes, and stumble out, and then stop. You’re back on that bridge that was witness to your ill-fated attempt to jump Undyne. What the dickens?

_ *?????????????? _

You head back the way you came, ignoring Frisk’s half-there, distracted suggestion to try and chip off the cheese crystal and take it with you ‘ _ *because it’s magic and it might be useful! _ ’.

_ * _ _ There was a door here. _

_ * _ _ It’s gone now. _

Yep, there’s the smarmy behoodied asshole. You head back the direction you are  _ positive _ the orange monster room was, the one you just came from and. There’s the bridge again. Can a bridge seem like it’s mocking you? Have you just… had a near death hallucination? But then how did you end up in the Sans room? You know you can… detach but. Hallucinations are generally a lot more. Your sense of reality is rapidly slipping from you. What, you can’t trust your  _ surroundings _ like you can’t trust yourself, Frisk and everyone else? This is such bullshit. Everything is complete bullshit. The universe is a lie.

Frisk is trying to project calm but their own fretting is rendering it extremely ineffectual. It feels like they’d be chewing their nails.

_ *Maybe we… accidentally went through a shortcut? _

Your fist clenches.  _ Sans.  _ ’Accidentally’, your butt. This is  _ exactly _ the sort of thing he would pull. That gaslighting- you are going to  _ kill him _ .

_ *Don’t! Don’t! Remember what happened last time! _

...you are going to think  _ very strongly _ about killing him, and hopefully with enough force to make him spontaneously poof of his own accord. He simply continues to commit such heinous crimes as  _ existing near you _ and  _ constantly smiling like that.  _ You storm past him, fringe over your eyes, fuming. The dimensional box you can leave for now. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him watching you all the way to the door and your teeth grind. Frisk nervously watches him in turn through your eyes, and then the back of your skull, the whole way until you’re out of eyesocket-shot.

_ *I… don’t think he’s going to hurt you. _

They sound surprised, like they can’t believe it. You certainly don’t. 

There’s no way he can’t know.

 

* * *

 

“hOI!!!!”   
  
_ Oh no. _

_ *Oh yes. _

They snap to projecting abashed apologeticness not even half a second after speaking, but you’re just staring like a deer in headlights at this dog… cat… dog…?  _ Its expression is jigging about its face _ . Just that one word sounds like a messageboard. You can just tell this is going to be unpleasant.

...it  _ does _ get points for vaguely resembling a cat, though.

“tEm hassssss…. Found h00man!  _ aaaaaa  _ it r cute!!! Wawawanna pet!! Hmnnnnrrrnn….  _ gonNA DO IT gon PET the the cute h00mun! _ ”

It leaps forward and your SOUL clicks out. You tense. You feel like you’re going to have a bad Tem.

Frisk seems a little horrified at the brief snort of muffled laughter they make at that. It can’t be Too Soon if  _ you’re _ the one making the joke, you think.

You half-expect bullets, or even the Tem to complete its arc towards your SOUL like a froggit, but it somehow defies all laws of physics and sense to fall lightly on all fours straight down to the ground from the top of its arc. And then it reaches out one paw, and… is too far away to touch you. You wonder if it’s like a Whimsun.

And then said paw  _ stretches  _ and you nope out of the way, wide-eyed.

_ *Tem vibrate in dispointmunt! _

No. _ Not them too.  _ What god has forsaken you (you wouldn’t be surprised if multiple pantheons have.) The Tem’s rump wriggles as it seems to recover from your rejection and prepares itself to try again with a cry of “cuuuuuuuuute!” You’re  _ not _ cute!

_ *Frisk confirm: YOur cute!  _ :3c

You are  _ not- _ don’t they- how are they even doing that!? You narrowly dodge the paw again. If there’s one thing this whole not-killing-anything thing has done, it’s made you better at dodging.

_ *I’ll demonstrate! _

_ * ヽ(⌐■_■)ノ♪♬  _

_ *  _ [ ⇀ ‿ ↼ ]

_ *  _ (つ･･)つ¤=[]:::::::>

Hell has a lot less fire than you expected. They roll their absent eyes and there’s the sensation of offscreen rummaging, a carding of memory.

_ *  _ (╯ಠ‿ಠ)╯︵┻━┻

_ *It’s you! _ ^

Oh hey, you’re not the one who’s actually feeling pain here. Let’s put that to the test. Their amused air dissipates to alarm.

_ *Wait- ! _

But it was too late you were already doing what every instinct was screaming at you not to and holding  _ absolutely still _ as that paw stretches in what feels like slow motion towards your SOUL, one hand and teeth clenched, and the other hand sort of loyally attempting to follow but only managing a twitch. Is the Tem going to grab and steal it? Frisk tenses.

The paw comes close and… gently boops your SOUL, and withdraws.

It’s… a weird sensation. You haven’t felt it distinct from the pain before but it’s familiar… a sort of electric tingle. Not a high enough voltage to hurt, but enough to feel vaguely, intimately uncomfortable, and the taste of not-quite-lemons of licking batteries. It’s a shouldn’t-be-happening feeling. You suddenly want to escape your skin but… haha, you kind of already have, haven’t you? That’s  _ you _ hanging there.

You close your eyes, gripping nothing tighter, and exhale, opening them. Did it  _ work,  _ though? You place a laser focus on Frisk as the pet ends and the Tem turns into an ecstatic blur. (You used to pretend you actually  _ could _ laser people with your red eyes. If looks could kill, a small epidemic would have started in your hometown.) They uncurl.

_ *...huh? _

_ * ...oh! _

What? They sound uncharacteristically pleased about hypothetical people getting lasered.

_ *You aren’t allergic! _ __  
__  
What. Check.

_ *Full health! Apart from… everything. I’m jealous! _

How can a SOUL be  _ allergic? _

_ *I think it’s… monsters are made of magic? And human SOULs are also made of magic, at least a bit? And sometimes some kinds of magic can react badly together? _

They sound uncertain, more relaying something they partly understood than actually knowing. You dodge the paw again this time. You’ve had enough being petted for a lifetime. Does this mean that you’re allergic to Froggits? They fidget.

_ *No. _

_ *Bullets are different for some reason but _

_ *Those froggits wanted to hurt you. Even a bit does. _

You stare at the red heart floating in front of you as the Tem runs off shouting about having petted a human and telling Temkind about a ‘successful diplomatik mishun!!’. It suddenly seems very vulnerable, exposed and fragile. Is this how it is for monsters all the time? They  _ have _ to be kind to each other, if unkindness kills so easily. A shame you don’t deserve that courtesy. You try to grab and take hold of your SOUL as it passes back into your chest, only for it to pass through the fingers of your good hand like ruby smoke.

Well. That makes sense, you guess? Otherwise surgeons would be finding them all the time.

_ *...mine was red _

_ *that’s why I thought you might be allergic too _

That’s right. They’d mentioned there was a similarity before.

...is that the reason the two of you are stuck like this? They project shrugging helplessly.

_ *Maybe?? _

They fall subdued. You have to strain to hear the next bit, and you’re not even sure it was intended for your ears. Mind.

_ *...I miss it. _

_ *Maybe if I still had it I wouldn’t _ _  
_ _ *I wouldn’t screw up all the time _

_ *It would be  _ easy

You find your arms protectively curling around your chest. They’re not getting yours.

_ *...I know. _

_ *Um. Let’s keep going. _

 

You spend five minutes inspecting every nook and cranny in the room.

 

* * *

 

Dark water laps against the pier.

The grey shape in front of you looks familiar. They are too still.

_ *... a sister? _

They sound as unsettled as you. You walk up behind them, silent. Silence. It’s very quiet. You can’t hear the water. You can’t hear your footfalls. You can’t hear your breathing. You can’t hear your heartbeat.

You can’t hear them speak, when you get close. When they turn towards you. Their eyes are an unseeing white; their gaze is somewhere to the left of your face.

_ *Have you ever thought about a world where everything is exactly the same... _

It’s Frisk’s voice, but it’s not they way they speak. Calm and slow and thoughtful and quietly soured like forgotten milk. The grey monster’s mouth is moving in tandem. Something runs down your spine. This is  _ not _ Monster Kid. This is  _ not _ Monster Kid’s sister. This is something wearing their  _ face _ , and Frisk’s  _ speech _ , perhaps in the hopes of being disarming, and you are surprised to find yourself  _ seething _ .

_ *Except you. _

Frisk,  _ stop it. _ Snap out of it! Fight it!

 

_ *Everything functions perfectly fine despite the change. _

_ *As if who you are never really mattered at all. _

 

You want to move. You’re frozen to the spot.

 

_ *Ha ha… _

_ *The thought terrifies me. _

 

They turn back to the water, and whatever force felt like it was immobilising you lifts. You lunge and swipe at the shape. No weapon, but you do not need one. No voice trying to stop you. Just a sense of vague, sorrowful interest.

Your hand goes straight through them.

Not in an intangibility sense, or even a made of dust sense. There’s a jagged line carved out of them where you struck. You  _ know _ you hit long and shallow, but you can see the black water through them. They turn, nuzzle at the wound with that same blunted curiosity (it shifts as they move, staying in the same place like it’s hanging in the air), and look back at you, focus drifting to the right this time.

 

_ *Please. _

_ *Forget about this. _

 

They dissolve. The ragged edges of the gash eat at them top and bottom like acid until there’s nothing left. Not even dust.

Your EXP /////&&$%@(creased___#####

 

Error!

Flag_not_found.

 

Everything goes black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


...your phone is ringing? But you can’t answer it. You don’t exist.

It goes to voicemail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  


Static

 

**_*-be honest_ **

**_*i have no idea what happened for you to get here_ **

**_*this is actually some sort of error-handling message_ **

 

Static

 

**_*chances are, though…_ **

**_*you’re just a dirty hacker aren’t ya?_ **

**_*yeah, get outta here._ **

 

 

Static

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
Static.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also 123seven3 has made a  Discord server for several fic writers, including myself! Come along in if you want to chat with us, or ask questions!


	13. We're Just Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will the circle be unbroken?

You wake up with the _unique_ experience that is having all the symptoms of a major migraine with the sole exception of the agony. 

_*hhhhhhhhh_

_*what… happened…?_

You’re lying in some kind of puddle, you think. You try to get up. The world blurs horribly. You lie back down. You have no idea. Did you die? You think you would have remembered that, but then again, Frisk probably killed you a ton of times that first time without your knowledge, near the end. They indignantly bristle and then pull back with a pained yelp when your eyes open. You can _feel_ your pupils constrict. You shut them again. 

_*I didn’t_ kill _you!_

_*I just… didn’t move fast enough sometimes_

_*Sorry_

You apologize for your body’s handling. You should have gotten it tuned up if you’d known someone else was going to be driving it. They cringe, as well they _should_. 

_*Listen I um. This is really late._

_*Too late._ _  
_ _*I’ve said sorry for taking over you but_

 _*I never really… said sorry for not doing what I should have instead_

...you’re listening, at least. You’ll give them that. Not that you have much choice. 

_*I didn’t really talk to you I just_

_*Kind of decided_

_*I was scared you’d kill her and I didn’t think_

_*That doesn’t excuse anything after, though_

_*I…_

_*It doesn’t excuse any of it at all_

“You did a terrible thing to prevent a terrible thing,” you murmur into the stone you can pretty much tell by feel alone is from Waterfall by this point. 

Could they have, though?

  
Could they have revealed themselves then, and explained things, and have it work?   
Would you have actually stopped? You don’t know, and you _can’t_ know, and neither could they, and they had to make the choice quickly. 

You’d been so angry and betrayed at the time. You’d burned with it. It wasn’t the kind of fire easily snuffed. 

Can you blame them for taking the less risky option?

 

Well, yes.

 

Is the opposite not what you’re doing, sparing every monster? The supposed _good_ thing? The _right_ thing? Such that choosing otherwise is undeniably bad and wrong, according to their own metric? Even outside of the inherent danger in battle, each one is a liability. Any one of them could return with backup, or spill your location or what you just _happen_ to be wearing. Your ‘ _existence is a crime’_ and this world is hostile to you. 

What does it say, that they were willing to try with every monster _except_ you, even considering the game-changing fact of deathlessness?

 

(It says you’re human. Sparing humans is a mistake. )

 

Frisk makes an exasperated, frustrated, guilty noise. 

_*You weren’t supposed to die!_ _  
_ _*I was trying to get you out alive!_

 _*That’s all I wanted, you and everyone else to_ **_not die!_ **

_*Was that too much to ask!?_ It’s shouted at an uncaring universe.

_*I was going to let you go when you were safe!_

_*I… just._

_*I just_ _  
_ _*I didn’t realise I made it so you aren’t._

 

You.

 

Weren’t _supposed_ to.

 

Did they ever think. That maybe. You might have climbed a mountain which makes people disappear. For a reason? Have they ever conceived. That there might be certain things to which death might be preferable? Surely. It has not been so long. That they don’t _remember._

_*..._

You want to add. ‘Did they not think that you could have done this on your own?’ But. You _know_ they didn’t. You feel their surprise and joy with every monster you spare, like encouraging a wild animal to act against its nature. They don’t trust you, and rightly so. 

You are equally justified in distrusting them. 

After all, they are human too. 

_*I don’t know what I am._

Of human stock, then. 

_*I crossed a line I shouldn’t have. Ever. So many times._

_*I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t have yelled just now, I’m sorry_

_*It’s okay if you distrust me, and hate me, and never-_

Stop. Just stop. These words are meaningless. This conversation keeps happening. The bodysnatcher apologizing to the mass murderer. You’re sick of it. Literally; you feel ill. Just. Stop. You don’t want to hear it anymore. 

_*But-_

_Stop._ You open your eyes. The light of the wallstones doesn’t seem to cause a problem anymore. Be useful, and tell you where you are. They seem to shake themselves, dubiously letting it drop. 

_*We’re…_

_*Oh._

You slowly get to your feet, wondering why this room might have engendered such a reaction. It’s empty, save for the umbrellas. You think you remember this place. 

_*Um, Chara?_

_*I_

_*I know you don’t like doing what people tell you but_

_*Could… could we go back? With an umbrella…?_

_*I’ll be quiet after, I promise!_ _  
_ _*I just... want..._

You can feel them gather themselves. Like a switch has been flipped they’re back to projecting a familiar happy-go-luckiness that causes you to question how genuine it has been every other time. 

_*I mean._ _  
_ _*You want to take your time right?_

 _*If you do the puzzle back there there’s a treasure!_

It’s interesting. That they think you wouldn’t do this without deliberate mashing of your buttons. They would likely be right; you’re very much not feeling well disposed towards them right now, as an understatement. However, how stupid do they think you to be? You’re not something they can _steer_ , directly or indirectly. You’re not one of these sparable monsters. There’s no _trick_ to you. 

_*...there is, actually._

_*Telling you to do the opposite, usually._

_*Being honest with you. You like that._

_*I don’t think you’ve had that very much._

_*Um. If I frame things as getting you something you already want._

_*..._

_*..._

_*Letting you burn yourself out._

_*You’re less resistant to things after._

 

Good to know! Good to know that every single interaction you’ve had has been a calculated move on their part! Gee, with that kind of Machiavellian guile, they don’t _need_ to possess you! You’re putty in their hands! Pray tell, are they hoping _being honest with you_ will get that music box playing? There’s a hitch of breath. 

Yes, you remember. You remember them stopping at it, listening. That wistful melancholy so strong you forgot it wasn’t you feeling it.

 

You know, you think you _will_ take an umbrella there. The point is probably sharp enough to mar stone. You stalk over and unsheath a red-and-white-one. 

_*You do this every time_

_*You think you aren’t in control, so you lash out_

You still. 

_*Chara, I’m telling you this so you_ know!

_*I’m not a good person at all, okay?_

_*I…_

You kick the wall. _Enough._ You are _done_.

At least you _tried._ You’ve played by their rules. You haven’t killed anyone (why does that feel wrong?) this time. You’ve humored them. 

You have _tried._ And what have they done? Broken trust after broken trust. Excuse after excuse. Meaningless apology after meaningless apology. The same mistake again and again. Nothing has changed. Your hand tightens around the umbrella handle. The tip _is_ very sharp. 

_*Please!_

_*You were doing so well!_ _  
_ _*You don’t have to hurt anyone else, please!_

What are you, their project? Something to mold and shape to their liking. To be tamed. Not a person, no, never at all. Just a murderer to reform and make soft-toothed and harmless to them like everyone else here. You turn the umbrella around and hold the point in front of your left eye, cursing at the tremor in your off-hand that makes it jitter. 

_*Don’t!_

You bring it closer, trying not to blink. They squirm. Being able to conceal your thoughts at least to a degree from them is a godsend. 

You let the umbrella drop,  and there is an echo of surprise from them. You twirl it idly, smiling hard enough to hurt your face. Looks like you’re stuck with them for the rest of your life! They want permission? They have it. Shock colours them. 

_*You… really mean it?_

Oh yes. Go ahead. Give it a try. No strings attached. They can go visit the statue themselves! You’ll even take your pain back, free of charge! You can feel them ignoring that last part, in favour of a flicker of hope. 

_*You really, really mean it?!_

Annoyance colours your thoughts. _Yes,_ you mean it. You don’t say, or think, things you don’t mean. They tentatively and egg-shell gently reach forward, into your arms and legs. You have to fight a shudder, and they pull back in concern, and you wordlessly wave them forward to their worried continuance. Your breathing, which had started to hitch, suddenly evens back out again as they blink and you try not to… you clip off that thought with hedge shears. Stay on target.

 

“Wow,” they say, and you make an internal grimace at the reminder of how _weird_ your voice sounds when they use it. “I… thanks? I really mean it! Thanks!” There’s the projection of a tight but brief hug from them as they turn your head down to look at the umbrella. Mentally, it’s more an exchange of emotions and therefore not as bad as the actual physical contact would be, but you still squirm in it, and they desist. They bounce a little on your toes. Wonderment and relief and surprised but strong gratitude are bubbling up from them in such amounts you quash a little pre-emptive… and let a flicker of more normal anger come through. _Now_ they really care about it, instead of taking it for granted. 

Their- _your_ \- face falls, and then firms into a strong expression. 

_*I’ll give it back right after the statue, I_ **_promise_ ** _._

 _*I just… thank you so much!_

You make a noncommittal noise at that. It doesn’t actually come out of your mouth. They _skip_ towards the statue, which annoys you a little. You don’t _skip._ They immediately cease. Oh, don’t stop on your account. 

_*I can tell this isn’t easy for you, I just want to make sure it’s all all right!_

_*Just tell me if the panic gets too bad, or you just want to stop, okay?_

Mmhm. Whatever they say. They awkwardly yet carefully place the umbrella into the statue’s hand and then settle crosslegged in front of it, slipping your eyes closed. ...further closed? Seriously how can they even see. A strange mix of sorrow and happiness wells in them as the tune begins to play, enough to seep across to whatever ephemeral space you currently exist in, and you try ineffectually to bail it back, along with everything else as time stretches out. 

Eventually, the music box runs out, and the sudden absence of sound seems to jerk them awake. Something wet _pats_ on the stone in front of them outside the pattern of the falling drops, and they startle at the sound before dabbing at your eyes with unsteady fingers and staring at the shine. 

_*...oh._

_*I didn’t mean to._

They hurriedly wipe at the tears with your filthy shirt-sleeve with the worried fervor of someone who’s been told there’s a test later. You don’t really care about that. _*Thanks,_ they say again, heartfelt, and then step back into observing.

 

Or try.

 

Your face frowns in puzzlement as they try again. Once again, you block them. They push against you. Problem? 

_*Chara, this isn’t funny, let me back in!_

Chara? Who’s that? There’s no one who exists with that name. 

**_*Chara!_ **

 

You don’t even bother replying. They redouble their efforts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*Okay, Chara, you’ve made your point!_

_*I pass the test, okay! I’m giving it back, like I said!_

_*Just let me!_

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

_*Or… or say anything! Think anything!_

_*Chara please!_

_*...Are you okay?_

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*Are you there?_

_*I’m sorry, I’ll stop, just don’t leave me alone!_

_*Chara!!!_

  
  


You’re surprised. They’re filled with real _fear._ Far more than you would have thought warranted. Enough that they would have to be a supreme actor. A sense of scratching at silent doors, of cold nights and already chewed fingernails stubbed further. But nobody came. 

Relief surges through them at the fact of your thoughts. You feel like the scum of the earth. 

It’s _stupid._ Why. They’re the one who wronged you aren’t they? They’re the one you’re… trying to demonstrate they’re not as in control as they think to.

 

You’re just as bad as _them_ , you recall saying.

 

Well. You’re. Not going to think about that. You wordlessly let them back in and are softly pushed back into control by displacement as they hurry back to their spot at the back of your head. They sort of hug themselves. Don’t worry, you didn’t rearrange the furniture. They make a small noise at that that might be a hiccup or a laugh. It isn’t a clicking, at the least. 

You reach out to the statue and run your good thumb along the edge of a horn. A brother, native to the Underground from the sounds of it. A woman called ‘mom’. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist. 

...this is his gravestone, isn’t it? 

Another hiccup-noise. You asked the wrong question, didn’t you. 

_*No it’s… um, it’s okay._

_*Monsters… they don’t have graves._

_*Their dust gets scattered on the things they loved the most._

_*There’s… a book in Snowdin but you didn’t go into the librarby so…_

You didn’t think it was important. It was before you really decided to drag your feet. ...Librarby? This time they really do sort of giggle a little. 

_*It, hee. Was misspelled when I was alive too._

It sounds a lot like cremation. You remove your hand. His memorial, then. Rather cold, was it not, of their family to mourn one child and not the other? Unless there’s a matching carving somewhere you haven’t seen?

 

_*They missed me!_

_*They… missed me._

_*They. Had to have, right?_

_*They… there was another statue!_

_*I don’t… know where it ended up, though._

 

Evidently you’ve hit a nerve. You let the matter drop. If you recall correctly, they mentioned there was a treasure…?  
  
_*Oh, right!_

_*Um. Yeah. Just keep heading to the piano._

 

* * *

 

The treasure is a _lie._

 

“You knew this would happen,” you say, watching the white dog scamper away. It’s not even a question.  
  
_*I said there_ was _a treasure… I wasn’t lying!_

 _* I should probably have mentioned this happened, huh._ They sound more thoughtful than sorry.

 

No wonder they called the dog Annoying. You’re going to call _them_ Annoying. The Annoying Frisk. 

They stick their tongue out at you, in projection. What, are you wrong? 

_*Pbbbtht._

You have one advantage over this pup. The gift of physical precognition. The only thing have to do is… you concentrate, focusing on the moment you solved the piano puzzle and the door slid open. 

You open your eyes. You’re still in the empty treasure room. Come on! It wasn’t that long ago! You _know_ you can do this!   
  
You focus harder, channelling all your frustration into that one moment where the world briefly locked into place, mentally feeling for it. Your fist clenches by your side. 

Nothing. Not even any sensation comparable to ‘swing and a miss’. You exhale unto the ceiling and then regard the empty plinth. Maybe killing yourself to snap back might be easier in the long run. 

_*Maybe don’t???_

_*Besides if you can do this on purpose it could be really useful!_

_*It means you don’t have to be in danger to try out different ways things can happen!_

Okay, okay, you get it. They don’t need to do that. Pray tell, oh wise spirit guide, what suggestions do they have _for_ rewinding deliberately? 

_*Um._

_*Hmm._ _  
_ _*I dunno._

Helpful! They project lightly kicking your ankle. Pfft. How pacifistic. That earns you another blep. 

_*It’s not like I got a manual!_

_*’Press Z to confirm, press X to cancel.’_

You laugh uneasily, and then the strange fire-flicker shadow of the moment passes. Just a joke. You don’t know why it bothered you. 

_*Are you okay?_ They sound worried. You’re never okay, thanks for asking.  Did they never purposefully turn back the clock in those hazy times? 

_*Um, once._

_*But that was an accident._

_*I think I had help?_

You drum your fingers on the pedestal. Asking Frisk to recreate the circumstances of last time is right out. 

_*I wouldn’t do it, anyway._

You try again, once more closing your eyes and focusing on the moment you wish to return to. Once more you fail. The only time you’ve gone back deliberately so far, with the intent to do so, was when you pulled the entire world back into existence. It felt like it was teetering on the brink, only needing a tap to fall into place. Why is this somehow _harder!?_

_*Determination is the will to change fate._

_*There wasn’t any fate left to fight you, maybe?_

They have a point. No opposing wills remaining. No other ambitions fighting for control. The universe, such as it was after the mess you made of it, was effectively under your thumb. 

...as long as Frisk agreed. 

No, no. That’s not right. There was no agreement in Toriel’s basement. There’s no reason you alone or even you-with-Frisk should be able to trump _nine billion people_. Something else must be in play. You’re missing something. Your hands have gotten snarled up in your hair and you roughly pull them out, sticky blood matting one side. You pace back and forth across the small room, thoughtlessly chewing the skin on your good thumb. 

_*... you don’t NEED this treasure._

_*I don’t even know what it does._

Too late. You’re doing this. You’re _committed_ . You’re not giving up on this now, out of pure principle, and they can’t dissuade you. Once more, you focus, and this time something _clicks._

 

The world _shifts_ , rewritten.

 

You don’t even need to open your eyes to know you’re back.

 

 _*You did it!_

This time instead of sending the impression of hugging you, they send the impression of the impression of hugging you. It’s an odd thought, and you shake it off. 

You check your pockets. No dog. You turn them inside out. There. You rush into the room and rush for the red orb and- 

Your hand closes on white fur. What. The dog yips around the ball in it’s mouth and bounds away. Frisk is very politely trying not to laugh.

 

You breathe in. You breathe out. Okay then.

 

You fumble for that frozen moment and it comes more easily this time around. You don’t even bother checking your pockets; you just _go._ The dog is already there, somehow. You lunge for it and it dances away as your chin hits the stone floor and sends vibrations up into your skull. Stars appear and pop. 

_*Ow._

You really wish you hadn’t lost your stick. 

The next time, you try cajoling it to give you the artefact in return for a single lonely cinnabun. The dog sniffs at it, leans closer… and bounds away, before you can even think about snatching the artefact from it. Frisk is being no help whatsoever. Aren’t they the one who knows all the tricks to people?  
  
_*This dog has no tricks_ , they manage to say solemnly for _most_ of the sentence.

 

The time after that, you swear the dog _winks_ at you as it passes. But that can’t be right. There’s no way it could know. Nobody knows, as far as you know. Except Sans, but he’s the exception. Isn’t he? The flower knew too. Did Toriel? Did Undyne? Does everyone know what you did? But then why… aren’t they trying to… 

Hahaha, well they are, aren’t they?  
  
_*Chara!_   
_*You probably imagined it._   
_  
_ They’re probably lying to make you feel better, and you feel a hot flash of guilt from them that confirms it. You can’t stand people making your doubt your senses. You have trouble trusting them as it is, you don’t need anyone making it worse! You’re still not fully convinced everything you’ve experienced here isn’t a dying fantasy of something broken backed and bleeding out on a cavern floor!! 

_*Sorry._

Don’t say sorry! You’re sick of them saying sorry! Just _don’t do it._

_*Sorry!_ They squeak. _*I… I… sorry!_

Stop it! Your fingers dig into your scalp, as if you could pry them out. 

_*Sorry!_ _Sorry. Sorry._ _Mmf. I. Chara. I. Need. I need to. No. It’s fine. It’s okay, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s okay. Forget I said anything, it’s okay. Sorry. It’s good. It’s okay._

You’ve managed to shove an impressive amount of your good hand into your mouth. You can’t feel the pain, but you can feel the pressure and the sensation when you bite down. Your back is to the stone wall of the chamber. It’s cold. 

_*It’s okay._ If it were text it would be shaking.

 

There’s a bark. A fluffy white face appears in the corner of your vision, before a beady black nose starts rooting in your pockets. The treasure is nowhere to be seen. Absorbed once more. 

“Bad dog,” you say halfheartedly. You place your hand on it’s head like you’re hoisting the appendage onto a shelf, and lever the fingertips back and forth. 

“You don’t have any snail pie?” the dog says, and you blink down at it, wide-eyed. “Cinnamon makes me sneeze.” 

“ _Out_ ,” you say, pushing its head away. You’re not sure why you, and Frisk from the feelings of bewildered surprise coming from them, weren’t expecting the dog to be able to talk. The Dogi and Doggo could.  “I am not letting you take anything after giving me the runaround like that.” 

“Woof,” says the dog, and bounces away.

 

You try to reload again. Your fire has cooled, and it slips and skitters out of your grasp. After the third try of sliding across nothing with no catch, you stand up and walk out. 

At least you know you _can_ , if you need to. You’re getting the hang of this. That you can control your own safety at least to an extent fills you with determination. 

Frisk’s silence fills you with unease. 

You glance at the plaques on your way out, but no translation is forthcoming, and the statue seems to follow you without eyes as you pass.

 

* * *

 

The monster kid follows you, again. At first the sight of them unnerves and angers for some unknown reason, and then they move and speak and the unsolicited feelings fade to nothing. 

The constant chatter and patter of their footsteps contrasts with the plink of water and the internal void, and you listen with half an ear. You’ve forgone an umbrella - you can’t get any _more_ wet, and being absolutely soaked will make Hotland at least a little bearable before it evaporates. 

You shiver, occasionally. 

“-t kidding, Undyne would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it!”  
  
“Yes,” you say absently, and then the cavern… opens up.

 

You remember this. You stop in front of the castle, and the kid almost bumps snout first into you. You stare out into the abyss. You wonder how far down it goes. Maybe forever.

 

“They’re pretty cool, aren’t they!” Monster Kid says in a single breath. They’re not looking down like you are, but staring at the crystals that almost seem to hang in the darkness. You sit, and they sit next to you, tail twitching. “Everybody tells me they aren’t as good as the real thing, though… One day we’re gonna see real stars, Undyne’s gonna make sure of it!” 

You draw your knees up to your chest, and rest your head on them. Monster Kid tilts their head towards you quizzically. 

“Haha… I just realised I haven’t seen you here before. Are you from the Capital?” They nod towards the castle in the distance, and then gasp excitedly. “Yooooo! Are you sneaking out too?” 

“Something like that,” you say, folding your arms in between knees and chin. You’re deceiving them. They’d probably be horrified and scared if they knew what you really were. They’d stand _in your way_. You should correct them but, well. Like you told Frisk. You’re a selfish creature. 

Monster Kid looks ecstatic to have a partner in crime, kicking their feet. “I’m not gonna tell anyone if you don’t! Hey… what’s your wish?” 

“My wish?” You look up at them, puzzled. They nod rapidly. 

“Yeah, on the stars, yo! Well, the crystals I guess. Mine’s to be as awesome as her one day!”

 

You look up at the points of light. They’re too big and blue to really mistake them for stars, unless all you had was generations of hearsay. You… don’t really have a wish. Wishing is for people who can’t grab things with their own hands and who still have faith in good things ever happening to them. 

You don’t know what you’d do if you got out of the Underground. All plans just… stop, after that point. 

Maybe you’ll find somewhere else to die, on your terms. Then again, would the world even let you? There’s a stirring. 

“My wish,” you say slowly, gaze fixed on the ‘stars’ and not the expectant face next to you, “is to never be hurt by anyone in any way ever again.” It’s all about pipe dreams, after all, isn’t it? Your gaze slides across to the Kid. This the part where people realise, become uncomfortable, change the subject, avoid looking at what you’ve put down in front of them.

Monster Kid just nods attempt-sagely, and it’s clear that they don’t get it at all. “That’d be so cool! You could have oh, skin made out of _diamond_! And bad guys could throw things at you and you’d be all ‘nuh uh’ and it would all bounce off and they’d be ‘oh no!’” 

There’s an odd, repeating noise. 

It takes you a moment to realise it’s coming from you. 

Your sides are uncomfortable. 

“What if,” you cough out through it, “I _am_ the bad guy?”

 

“Huh?” Monster Kid scratches at their head with their tail. “Well… then I guess Undyn-!”  
  
“Shut up about Undyne. I don’t want to hear about Undyne. What if,” you continue, ignoring the hurt look flashing across the monster’s face, “I could be harmed but I could make it disappear by going back in time. What if I could be hurt, but the more people I killed, the less it would work? What if I killed your precious heroine, and you’d never know how many times, because I could make sure it never happened?” 

You’re smiling. Monster Kid looks a little spooked, like they don’t know whether to laugh it off as a game the two of you are playing or to run away. Good. God damn right they should be scared of you. If they reply with ‘but Undyne can’t be killed,’ you’re going to laugh in their face and walk away. 

“If you’re the bad guy,” they say instead, “don’t you gotta have a villainous plan?” 

“Are you. Expecting me to monologue?” You say flatly. “People don’t plan to be evil, they _are_ evil. They do evil things because that’s simply their nature.” 

They just tilt their head, scratching under their chin with a foot-claw. “That’s okay. If I had a villainous plan I wouldn’t tell anyone either.” You make a strangling motion with your hands, or at least one of them. The other does this sort of sad twitch. This monster is quite possibly the most irritatingly oblivious you’ve met so far, and that’s saying something when Papyrus exists. You don’t know why you’re even bothering with… whatever you’re doing. 

You really _don’t_ have a plan. 

There’s a soft laugh in the back of your mind that muffles itself; pretty clearly meant to go unheard. 

“I am surprised you’re still here,” you tell Monster Kid, willfully ignoring Frisk. “Considering what I might be, and what I might do.” 

“Haha, you’re just a kid like me,” The tip of their tail starts twitching and they’ve seemed to have returned to their usual animated self. “If you do have a villainous plan, you’re gonna get _grouuun. Ded!_ ” 

You make an ugly undignified snort, and clap your hands over your face. It’s not funny. 

“Six feet under,” you continue to snicker, and MK gives you a nonunderstanding look. That’s right, monsters don’t do burials. This entire mountain is a tomb. 

“That’d be pretty mean, yo” they say. “My parents wouldn’t be _that_ mad.” 

You wonder what they’re interpreting your statement as. “Is that so,” you say dryly, propping your head on a hand, tilted towards him. “How lucky for you.” 

You can feel Frisk trying not to be present. Perhaps it’s the edge that slipped into your tone. 

“If your parents put you under six feets, I’d rescue you,” MK says with a nod of absolute certainty and a moving shudder that’s interesting to look at when a tail gets involved. “That’s just _wrong_.” 

The dam bursts. You can’t hold it in, you’re laughing so hard you fall over onto your side. There’s tears in the corners of your eyes, which is stupid because you _never_ cry. “Yes,” you gasp out between inhaling. “It’d, hahaha, really _stink_!” 

Monster Kid laughs along too, loud and clear, falling back and kicking at the air. It sounds like what laughter _should_ sound like, you think, not whatever ugly mess is coming out of you in great fits and starts. Ew, there’s snot coming out. You wipe it on a sodden sleeve, and snort back in what you can. 

_*Gross!_ There’s more teasing than sincerity in the admonishment. That’s right, they have a front row seat. You hack and cough a few more times before pulling yourself to your feet. Your lungs probably hate you by now. Beside you, MK pops up like toaster bread. It’s a little impressive.

 

“MK?” you say, as you walk and they trot, and they glance towards you. “Would you say the game is a foot?” MK laughs again, almost trips over their own leg-appendages, and self corrects. When they have their balance, they brighten. “Is that a nickname, yo!” 

“Yes,” you say, only barely managing to avoid turning it into a question. They look like there’s stars in their eyes. “Whoa!! I’ve never had a cool nickname before! My sister calls me things, but they don’t count.” Their feet beat out a staccato rhythm out on the stone as they sound it out. “MK… it’s cool ‘cause people will still know it’s me, but I can still be...” They puff out their chest. “‘it’s _MK_ now.’” 

You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it’s probably somewhere in the ‘whyyy?’ region. What is happening? You don’t even know anymore. 

Frisk is grinning above clasped hands and they should _stop._

_*Don’t mind me,_ they say, and you roll your eyes and watch MK chatter about.

 

“How can you exist,” you blurt.

 

 _*Well when two or more monsters love each other very much…_ Frisk starts, making it very difficult to _not_ mind them, at the exact moment as Monster Kid, sorry, _MK_ , says “Huh?” and turns to see you clamping your hands over your ears. What an incredibly ineffective endeavour. You neither want nor _need_ to know that, Frisk! 

_*I didn’t when I found out either_ , they say with an implication of ‘if I had to, so do you’, but they stop. 

“Nevermind,” you tell a mildly bewildered MK. The two - three - of you have come to that cliff twice your height.

You wait for MK to puzzle it out, and then step on their head when invited, avoiding their horns. It doesn’t seem to bother them at all. You lie down on the edge of the cliff, fingers curling over the edge, and wordlessly extend an arm downwards. 

_*Aw!_

Shut up. Maybe you can grab their horns or sweater or something, if they jump. Monster Kid just laughs, tells you not to worry about them, they’ll meet you later, yo! and faceplant-trots off. 

After a moment, you withdraw your arm and get up, and move on. 

_*Do you want me to read these?_

Read what? Oh. You’d almost completely forgotten about the plaques. You shrug a shoulder. Why not? 

_*This one says that humans were scared because monsters could absorb their SOULs, and attacked out of nowhere._

You recall the statue. You think you can still hear the music box. Frisk isn’t looking at you. Not that they _can_ without a mirror, but the impression is there. 

_*This one says that it was a massacre. No SOUL was ever taken._

You’re very much not surprised. Even the young of the species is dangerous, to quote a documentary. 

_*..._

 

You turn away from the plaque.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t do this,” you realise, looking out at a forest of walkways. 

_*You can-!_

“I _cannot,_ ” you interrupt. “Believe in me or whatever meaningless encouragements you wish to give, but this isn’t happening.” 

You don’t trust yourself. You could bear it for Toriel, and Papyrus, because when it came down to the wire neither would finish you off. You could do it for other monsters, because you could run or spare and have it stick at any time if you wanted to. You can’t do it with Undyne, and your previous encounter only proves it. There’s been too many deaths to her. You _know_ you’ll snap and revert the moment the spears come up, and at your lowest LOVE that’s a death sentence. 

You turn away from the entranceway. Since you know she expects you to come through here, another way should work. 

Frisk fidgets. _*She expects you to come through here because there’s no other way through._ You get the sense they’re warring with themselves, which abruptly ceases when they hear that you’ve noticed. Mind-sharing is weird. 

_*You can always try again now, remember? You’re safe. You don’t have to die again._

Mmrmrn. That’s not as reliable as you would like for this. Your newfound confidence falters. In the moment, you have no guarantee you’ll be able to, or _remember,_ to use it. You can’t rely on Frisk to remind you either; you try to block them out like that.

 

It’s funny. You’d have thought they would have said it, by now. 

_*I’m not doing that unless you’re okay with it._

_*And you weren’t last time, even if you didn’t_ say _so._

You still feel angry _this_ Frisk wasn’t around when you first ‘met’. Then again, they became this Frisk through what the two of you have done to each other. You can feel them swallow something back but you can guess; the same sentiment applies to you. 

_*...the last time I shared a body… neither of us asked to do things_

_*We just trusted each other, completely._

_*It, um._

_*We... I got too used to that I think._

Souls are a commodity, you remember with a chill. You remember a horned statue. Their brother? They avert from the thought, but don’t deny it. Your hand curls in the fabric over your chest. 

They don’t have a soul anymore. They _aren’t_ a soul anymore. How are they still alive? 

_*I don’t know._

_*I don’t even have dust._

The words are tired. 

You step out. Both literally and metaphorically; Frisk is shunted into control as you move out into the open. They stumble forward under the momentum and try to halt, but there’s the rising hum of familiar-feeling magic under their-your feet. The memory of it is muted, like this. It can’t touch you. It’s almost like being buffered in LOVE again. 

_*Think fast._ You… you didn’t realise you could speak like them. You dislike it and resolve not to in the future. Things are already needlessly confusing in here. 

“Chara!” they shout. There’s an edge to their voice, but you don’t see what they’re bothered about; they dance around the spears effortlessly in that unconscious way that instantly fills you with envy. They start running down the walkways. “Switch back right now!” No.  
  
They skid to a halt to let a spear fly up so close it makes your hair ruffle before continuing. If they’re that worried about getting injured, then here. You grope for your pain to take it back and they shift it around and outside your reach with the same fluidity with which they’re avoiding Undyne’s magic. 

Your breath is coming in panting huffs now. “Chara, you butt! It’s not about that!” They pull at you to no avail, and abruptly stop when they have to twist to avoid a spear that clips your face. They seem to be doing just fine by themselves, distractions aside. 

You remember that feeling when you were suppressed, smothered by their consciousness. Barely there and getting less there with every passing hour. This time, you actively invite it in. The blackness of non-thought closes over you like dark water and muffles Frisk’s rising panic.

 

“Nononono, _Chara don’t l-!_ ”

  
You’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has gotten some _amazing_ fanart and I've got to show you:
> 
>  
> 
> [Blackrazorbill's rendition of Chapter 7](http://blackrazorbill.tumblr.com/post/147359502457/you-were-only-doing-what-you-thought-was-right)
> 
>  
> 
> [Ask-chara-and-asriel's rendition of Chapter 12](http://ask-chara-and-asriel.tumblr.com/post/150572774615/fanart-for-the-latest-chapter-of-lovely)
> 
>  
> 
> [Ask-chara-and-asriel's [SPOILER]](http://ask-chara-and-asriel.tumblr.com/post/151044014200/its-yew-scrollingdown)


	14. Ghosts 'N Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avoiding your responsibilites with procrastination is a time honoured tactic.

_That’s a nice name._

The smell of garbage hits you like a brick to the face and you crinkle your nose. You know you’ll eventually get used to the smell to the point of no longer noticing it, but you wish a great deal that that would come sooner.

Frisk takes a while to surface from the haze of nostalgia and occluded emotions drifting like vapour around their unreal estate in your mind as you carefully pick through the floating refuse for anything that’s survived in a state of edibility. The fog eventually becomes opaque and dark and frictionless and enclosed.

They’re not happy with you, that much is evident. You let them stew while you explore. Your knowledge of this area is patchy. Over time the darkness lightens to a static grey.

It’s when you accidentally gash your good hand on a sticking out spoke of a broken bike wheel that they become actually present. _*Careful!_

Welcome back, Frisk. “I always am,” you say, placing it in your mouth for the taste of blood. You used to be fascinated by blood (you still are). You used to mesmerisedly watch it run down your skin and you used to use it to mark your things. You have a vague, age-hazy memory of proudly showing someone a scrape covered in bright red beads. The same colour as your (scary, creepy, demon) eyes. _Your_ colour.

 _*You’re always not_ , they retort. A sense of things having been put aside, for now. You’re surprised to feel as much relief and apprehension as you do at that. Surely it shouldn’t matter?

“Lies and slander,” you reply, pulling at a car door until it falls away to reveal a cooler. Jackpot? “You come into my house and besmirch my good name like this?” The cooler is empty save for being half full of what the charitable would call water and you decide is swill. You shut it and continue.

_*Oh no, what am I thinking? I should be besmirching your bad name instead._

Your face is doing weird things and you’d like it to stop. “It would be significantly easier, considering the only name I have is bad.”

 _*I think your name is nice! You don’t like it?_ Their playful tone has given way to earnestness, a change you find you dislike. You can almost read what they’re not saying; why fight for a name so much if it wasn’t one you wanted?

“It’s… pleasant enough,” you shrug, shaking a thermos. The sloshing noise it makes is unspeakably _wrong_ and you let it drop into the gunge you’re wading through. _Cha-ra._ The sound is better, the way you pronounce it. It’s more dangerous sounding, you think, which you like. “It’s simply ill-fitting in meaning. ‘Joy’, ‘Friend’. I wouldn’t say those describe me very well, would you?”

_*..._

Oh no. Oh no they don’t.

 _*You’re_ my _friend._

They do. Teasing delight spiked with something you can’t quite identify… apprehension? diffuses from their quarters. You set down a bizarrely-shaped twist of metal onto a pile of mostly equally tortured pieces.

“You can’t just say things like that, Frisk.” You place a hand to your chest in mock horror, and the feeling, whatever it was, bleeds out. You scour your memory for what you remember of what friendship’s _supposed_ to be like, and even though you’re pretty sure it isn’t what immediately comes to mind you can’t _not_ roll with it. “You have to defeat me in single combat so you can show me the error of my ways and set me on a redemption arc that will never complete because the network cancels the show.”

 _*Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself_ , they reply with an echo of vague fist movement, neatly nailing the inherent difficulties of that. You can’t help snorting into your sleeves, and they laugh, once again worry… at how you’d react? dissipating. You’re a little annoyed.

 _*What show is this anyway?_ You roll your eyes. Of course they’d be interested in a program so unabashedly about converting people to a cause. You can’t remember the title. You’re surprised you managed to watch enough to still remember that vague plot years later.

 _*I guess that means you liked it._ There’s no catface on the end, but you know they don’t need one. You’re eminently capable of remembering things you don’t like, Frisk. Recent events being a case in point.

The water in front of you bubbles ominously and then shoots up in a fountain to reveal… an apoplectic dummy. See, you remember _this_ asshole.

 _*Language!_ The tone is mock-Toriel. Excuse you, then. _This_ butt. They cough-laugh. You’re surprised they didn’t say anything when you called Sans one, now.

_*You were in a bad mood and I was distracted and also… he… kind of is._

A smile curves up your face. Kind of is what, Frisk? Go on. Say it. _Say it._

_*He’s… an asshole._

* * *

 

Since the very concept of _turns_ seems to have gone out the window ( _*And that’s why it’s tradition_ , Frisk chimes in) you take the opportunity to punch the Mad Dummy again, and then kick them, ducking when the head yoyos back towards you. That was fun, but you can’t attack forever. Combat filler is a bad idea when your food is limited.

There’s no way this Dummy is getting any less Mad. But... you cup your hands around your mouth, dodging furiously, getting smacked upside the head with a tumbleweed, and pausing to scarf down a cinnabun.

“Your cousin sucks!” you yell. “The two of you can get stuffed!” The dummy screeches at you.

 _*Chara, what are you doing!?_ You wince. Ow, that was almost as loud. They apologize… and then you feel them realise, or maybe just skim it off your brain. You’re grinning. About time.

 _*All, um. All four of the ghosts are cousins_ , they murmur. _*Are you sure about this? If you just hang on-_ You’re not even going to answer that. They want the best outcome? They’re getting the best outcome.

Their silence expresses dubiousness about the bestness of what you have planned, but they metaphorically step back. You’d crack your knuckles if you weren’t busy jumping around for your life, and also if one set of them weren’t out of commision. This is going to be _good._ You whirl, and send the scribbles into their owner.

“Especially that excuse for a soggy handkerchief! Cry me a river… oh wait, they do!”

Frisk’s demeanour is one big cringe. “Diediediedie _diediedie **diedie!**_ ” screams Mad Dummy. “Dummies, you’re fired! Rocket dummies, you’d better not mess this up or I swear-!”

Wide-eyed, you get a rocket to the gut. It’s new, deja vu aside, and exactly as painful as it sounds, and you double over with a groan. The pieces of Mad Dummy look like they’re being held together only by pure rage. Almost there… _four?_ Who’s the fourth?

Frisk debates while you find out the rockets are _homing_ rockets the hard way, and then wordlessly opens up. It’s a strange sensation, like being tapped on the shoulder and turning around to find you’re suddenly somewhere _else._

_Wheeled-box-damaged-key-matching-homes-diaries-physical-ghosts-bench-spotlights_

It’s a concentrated pulse of impression and _concept_ more than memory, and you still feel the sharp spike of a headache set up shop in your right temple. You grit your teeth and press your palm against it, and keep moving. Frisk does nothing further, poised over your shoulder like a pointer dog.

“Let’s not forget that sad wannabe bucket of bolts! The smartest thing he ever did was leave you Halloween rejects behind!”

Mad Dummy stills.

Mad Dummy goes incandescently _nuclear._

It’s amazing to watch, honestly. You feel like you should be wearing sunglasses while behind a blast shield. Quite possibly there should be a rising choir in the background. You are definitely dead, you think, and you don’t even care. Worth it.

 _*Oops,_ says Frisk quietly, in the blank whiteness.

When it fades and you let your arms drop, you’re surprised you’re still knee-deep in garbage.

The Glad Dummy floats in front of you, yellow. It looks a little stunned, insomuch as dummies can really have an expression.

 _*You did it!_ Frisk says as you tune out the tune out the Dummy’s spiel (yeah yeah yeah pure unbridled fury, fused with body, ~~now killable~~ , they _guess_ they can let you go even if you’re an utter jerk ~~which is not news~~ ) and spare it. You can almost hear the confetti.

_*You missed out on a knife though._

You think you recall something about them being ‘no spoilers’. Their amusement at their one person injoke turns contemplative.

_*Is it a spoiler if it already would have has happened?_

Yes. You sidestep around the still rambling dummy and almost run into the wet blanket themself.

_*Their name is Napstablook._

No need to sound so long-suffering, Frisk. You’re sure you can remember Mapsterbluck’s name.

_*Now you’re just doing it on purpose._

Tears are welling up in the ghost’s eyes already, and you confusedly brace yourself for battle.

“......oh………..” they say, and then fade away. You wave your hand in the area they occupied, and they’re indeed gone. What was that about?

 _*...Something’s not right_ , Frisk says, sounding troubled. _*That’s not supposed to happe_ n.

You’re not going back and changing it, you think before they can even suggest it. Fighting the dummy once (well, technically three times) was enough.

 _*..._  
_*I guess we’ll see what happens?_

* * *

The turtle is extremely less hostile this time, which surprises you given you are almost completely certain he knows what you are and what you're capable of. Frisk is suddenly much less pushy when it comes to going forward, seemingly distracted by asking you to let the bird carry you forth ( _no_ ), go into Napstablook’s house (there’s no one there, and there’s no one at the snail farm either, and they metaphorically bite their lip. It’s a little unnerving to you as well; you are reminded of an empty town) and visit Tem village (absolutely not, not even for their ‘rich history’. For… armor? Dog remains? You _have_ been trying to get rid of that… what do you mean? What are you _planning_ , Frisk?).

_*Don’t look now, but you’re being watched : 3_

You look at the Tem stuck in the wall. You look down at the Temmie Armor covering your chest. It’s made of corrugated _cardboard._ You can’t believe you just blew that much G on this.

 _*Technically it was Temmie’s G!_  
_*It’s worth it, honest!_

You place your extremely sad-looking grimy bandage in the dimensional box. It better be. They roll their eyes.

...You wonder if you can farm enough money for Sans’s comedy routine.

 _*Oh no._  
_*Chara, no!_  
_*We’ll be here forever!_  
_*I don’t even know if she has that much money!_

Didn’t Sans say that was more than extant in the entire Underground?

_*You never know with Tems_

You step back into the Tem Shop, and the Tem vibrates. The concurrent movement of the little tassel on her trencher is very distracting, and you’re still puzzled by the stripes. Is she a kid, like you? Are they all? What do adult Tems look like, then? Why are there none here? Have you come across some already and they’re so radically different you didn’t notice?

Frisk presses an image into your mind; eight legs, tall as their shoulder at the shoulder when quadrupedal at rest, disturbingly sparkly eyes. It comes with a colour of slightly terrified fondness-from-a-distance.

 _*I… I don’t know why they’re gone._  
_*They were around when I was alive._  
_*Maybe they…_  
_*..._  
_*Um. Weren’t you going to sell her something?_  
_*You’ve been standing here for a while._

They still need to work on their segues, but you can guess and you let it go. You square your shoulders. Here we go.

_*Oh boy_

You don’t know how long you spend selling absolute junk to Temmie. You have to stop to sleep and eat several times, which necessitates an expedition to find some corner you wouldn’t be disturbed. Monsters seem to have no concept of privacy.

* * *

 

In the end, you end up sleeping on the floor of Napstablook’s empty house, and the first time you got lost in space doing so was so disorienting you ran right back out again. Your dreams always being entirely of stars instead of anything else is, however, a welcome change, although you wonder how a monster like Napstablook knew them well enough to set this spell down so accurately.

Then again, ghost monsters can’t exactly be killed under most circumstances. You wonder how long they live. Frisk has no idea, but Napstablook and their family were around during their time too, apparently.

They press the memory of what Toriel’s first attempts at snail pie tasted like into you to tease until you feel the need to physically rub your tongue against a wall to get it out, and you retaliate by playing Spookwave on its highest volume for an entire day, apparently creeping out the local monsters quite badly. They tell you to eat the ghost sandwich and giggle as you go right through it. You go to one of the magic-crystal powered lanterns and then quickly look directly at it just as you activate it. Apparently your cavern-dark adjusted eyes do not take this well, judging by their exclamation.

After that, they’re either conceding the floor or plotting their revenge, and you’ll be ready either way.

There’s no toilet in Napstablook’s house - in _anyone’s_ house, and while monster food solves one problem, water is water. You avoid the glowing, frothing blue areas, because you know now that ends up in Gerson’s tea, and what goes around won’t come around there, thanks, and the garbage dump for similar reasons, and go in the waterfall that leads to the Abyss. That this is an insult to the Void amuses you.

You wonder if any monsters live down there. Ones that can fly, maybe. Frisk doesn’t answer. They always press themselves as far to the back of your mind as they can go when you do this, turning away. You appreciate at least that degree of privacy, and mentally prod them when you’re done.

 _*Can we stop now, Chara?_  
_*We’ve been doing this for a week!_  
_*The box is getting way too full._

You head off through the garbage, picking through it idly. There might be stuff here that Temmie will accept, and you could probably swing by Gerson and buy some of the strangely infinite clodglas.  
Frisk makes a noise halfway between groan and whine.

 _*We’ve run out of food!_  
_*You can’t just live on sea tea._

Oh yes you can. Watch you. It’s all magic, isn’t it? Does it matter the form it comes in? You’ve found you like the boost in speed, very much. It makes the trips back and forth just that much faster.

_*I shouldn’t have told you about that._

They sound unnecessarily worried. You’re _fine_ , Frisk, you think at them, rolling your eyes as you heft yourself up out of the sludge.

They, for the first time since the wall incident, firmly shove your pain at you, and you find yourself doubling over, leaning on a wall for balance, gritting your teeth and panting. What is… how did you get this _bad_? Shouldn’t what you have been eating, or drinking, have healed you?

 _*Because you say you’re fine when you’re not, and do stupid things because I’ve got your pain, and monster food can’t do everything!_  
_*It’s not great at physical stuff!_

They carefully fold your pain back up and put it away, even as you mentally reach weakly for it. Their point’s been made. You straighten up, tentatively. No pain, as usual, and that’s not entirely correct, is it?

“Frisk, you need to stop,” you say. You head over to a patch of clean, unglowing water, and wash yourself off in it. “Give it back.” If that’s what they’re feeling, all the time…

_*It’s better than feeling nothing…_

 

Did you stutter.

 

They stiffen, stricken mute by your redness.

They. Do not. Get to steal your pain, and yes, it was stolen. From you. And blame the consequences on you. They do not get to be the arbiter of what is, and is not. Best for you. They signed away any potential claim to that right the moment they assumed it was theirs. You have been patient. You have let them hold it. No more. It is a part of you, it is _yours._

_*I’m… I was just trying to help!_

Oh yes. You remember driving a wedge into that faultline a timeline ago. Helpful Frisk. Useful Frisk. And if they’re neither helpful or useful, they’ll _make_ themselves so, won’t they. Shall you give them your sight, so they can guide you around with it? Your hearing? Touch? Frisk-that-has-to-be-relied-upon. Frisk-you- _have_ -to-trust. Frisk-the-humble-servant, that is _neither_. You pull yourself, dripping, from the pool, and begin wringing out your clothes with more force than usual.

 _*I wouldn’t do that!_ They sound angry.  
_*That isn’t the same thing at all!_

Is it? It’s funny. They crave power and control just as much as you do, it seems. They’re just more deceptive about it.

 _*I told you!_  
_*I try to help people because I like helping people, Chara!_  
_*I’m not… I don’t. You think it’s just… this isn’t! That!_  
_*It’s not about doing it because I can, or, or… holding something over people, or… making them love me…_

They trail off, bile-coloured. Ashen-coloured.

_*I… made them love me._

For some reason the admittance does not fill you with the satisfaction of a successful salvo but rather unease. Believe you, you do not love them. Except perhaps in an acronymic sense.

They don’t answer. It feels like if they had a physical form, their hands would once more be clamped around their mouth, a stare unfixed on anything immediately visible. Did you… break them?

The unease suddenly makes sense to you. It’s a diluted version of that realisation a split second after the fact that your intended ‘weakening’ strike was a lethal one to Toriel.

Knowing precisely how much damage you can do is important to you. It has been for a long time, including before you fell. An accidental lucky hit can be a disastrous miss later. That is why you practiced when you could sneak away, and studied what you could snatch of combat harder than you ever did for school. Why you learned to sniff out weakness, and fear, and uncertainty where you could find it, and press the advantage handed to you without hesitation.

Recent events have once again hammered in that your control is not as ironclad as you thought. And you realise something. An equivalency of sorts.

You soften your fangs a little. You cannot do it more than that; standing down still grates against the very grain of your being, but your next thought is more of a sharp nip than a bite.

They wish to feel safe. And they cannot trust anyone to be safe for them of their own initiative, because why _would_ anyone be? They say nothing, but there’s enough of an unconscious pingback sort of resonance that you’re immediately confident in the correctness of your guess. So it is up to them to _make_ people safe. Make them love them. Be good, or be wanted, with the ideal goal of turning power on it’s head until who is taking advantage of who becomes a confusion.

You cannot blame them. Your wish, given in sarcasm, won’t leave your mind. As methods go, you can concede that it is generally considered more morally right than yours. And yet you still resent the intrusion, in all the forms it has taken. You can understand it, but you still hate that they did it to you. You had not been a threat to them. You didn’t even know they existed.

_*Chara..._

The tone is sad, mournful and coloured with quiet pity, and the only reason your only reaction is your back teeth grinding against each other is that they can’t hide the acceptance in it either. There is a thread of self-bittered, unwanted confirmation mixed in that tone, tumbling out through the cracks, and something they avert their gaze from.

They fumble for something to say, and you wordlessly mentally hold out a palm for your pain.

A moment’s hesitation, and they give it.

 _*Are you sure about this?_ they say, ruining the moment as you try to ride the wave of agony out, slowly curling up on the stone floor.

“ _Yes_ ,” you hiss through your teeth. The pain begins to… not _subside_ , but it becomes easier to manage. So long without it and you’ve gotten out of practice at grinning and bearing it, although it comes back like riding a bicycle. Card through the pain. Distance it. Someone else’s, although not literally, now.

Your left hand is on _fire._ There’s a chorus of cuts and scrapes and bruises all over you. There’s an itch of fever crawling on your skin and through your blood. There’s familiar pangs of hunger.

You’ll manage. You always have. You pull yourself up with a great effort. Your steps as you move away from the pool are more shambling than they were towards, because it appears you unknowingly twisted your ankle at some point, and have been walking heedless on it.

 _*I should have told you sooner..._  
_*It all built up so slowly it took me a while to notice._

You don’t believe that but sure. Fine. Okay. It’s a silence filled trudge to Napstablook’s house, and you open the door with more force than necessary.

You halt in the doorway. The ghost themself is there. They turn from the computer, and spot you.

 

“....oh no….,” they say. “...i didn’t mean to be rude….. i forgot… you’re usually gone for longer……….”

“Have you,” you say flatly. “Been here the entire time?” Frisk floods your head from the back with a wave of thick relief.

“..............i didn’t want to be a bother….” the ghost continues. “...sorry…… i just made it more awkward….. I’ll just go….”

 _*Wait!_ Frisk says, but they’re already fading out. And then fade back in. Oh that’s right, the ghosts can hear Frisk. You wonder if they can see them too, and what that would even look like.

 _*I like your music!_ Frisk says, giving a mental thumbs up. Frisk, you liar. They were begging you to turn it off. They’re lucky it wasn’t that one that was nothing but wrestling screams. They’re also lucky that apparently the ghost wasn’t here then. They send a pulse of ‘shh’ at you that would probably be familiar to anyone who has tried to talk to someone who’s on the phone and give the impression of smiling at the ghost.

“….oh….,” Napstablook looks both pleased and abashed. “....i’m glad but……...it’s not very good…..”

 _*We listened to it for an entire day!_ Frisk says, not brooking any demurral. _*That’s not the sort of thing someone who thinks it’s bad would do, right?_ Is that just a little bit of a dig at you? You feel like an immense third wheel just standing here while they talk, but it’s not as if you can leave and leave them to it. Is this how they feel when you talk to people? You get another ‘shh’ for your musings. No, this is probably worse.

Napstablook gives a small watery smile. “........i guess…..oh….i met someone nice today……”

What, are you not nice? Just kidding, you know you’re not.

 _*It’s not being nice_ , Frisk says, even though their corner of your head feels like a sunrise. _*I’m just telling the truth! ^^_ They make a noise as if something’s just occurred to them, even though you’re in an unparalleled position to know they’ve been sitting on it for the past few seconds. _*I think there’s someone else in Waterfall who makes music! Do you know Shyren?_

Where are you going with this, Frisk. Your legs are starting to complain. Yet another ‘shh’. You sigh.

Napstablook seems to perk up a little. “........i went to your concert……it looked like you were having fun……….... I’m sorry….. I didn’t buy a ticket….” There’s tears in the corners of their eyes. You prop your ‘good’ hand (it still has quite a few scrapes on it) on your chin.

“Wow, what a rebel,” you say, waving it off. “Don’t worry about it, the manager stiffed us on our cut.” Frisk muffles a snort, and then another, more horrified one when they get the puns. _*Maybe he can take it off your IOU?_ Huh. That’s a thought.

“.......oh… i’ve heard of that happening….. I’m sorry to hear that………” Napstablook nods a little, insofar as they can. “........that’s why I…. sell on Undernet….” And also probably to avoid having to physically talk to people, you think. You can relate.

“Sadly, our touring days are over,” you opine semi-dramatically as a prelude to leaving. “The lights… the fans... the fame... They’re all just too much.” Napstablook’s small sad expression returns and you realise the words might have reminded them of Pinky.

 _*M-!_ Frisk starts to correct before remembering and cutting themselves off in record time. They’re scandalized by your amusement at this. _*I mean, I hear Shyren wants to collaborate with new artists, now we’ve split up! I bet she’d really like to work with you!_

Oh. So that’s Frisk’s game. They’re laying it on thick, aren’t they? They sort of not-push at you, a minor shove.

“......you…. think so…..?” the ghost says, with the hope of someone who wants both answers at once.

 _*I know so!_ Frisk says cheerfully. _*I think your styles would go great together! Think about it, maybe._

“….okay… i will…..” Napstablook is smiling a small smile again. You get the feeling their good mood and undoubtful agreement will fade soon, but you guess Frisk is gambling on some part of it remaining.

Looks like you’re done here. You turn and walk out of the house without a further word. Frisk emanates happiness like a small coal, humming. How disgusting.

The thought that someone might have been watching your sleep without your knowledge this entire week fills you with determination… to get very much out of there.

* * *

 

It’s a long trek to the lanterns, and once more both of you are silent. You have to stop occasionally and rest to ease some ache or another before proceeding, and you can feel them carefully _not_ asking each time.

You can see why Frisk wanted you to take the pink crystal with you. Then again, you don’t know what is in the lanterns that makes them useable. Frisk flicks a memory at you, and you can’t tell if it was deliberate or accidental; _riding on wet fur_ and _small sparks of magic in the dark._

You know what’s coming, crystal clear. Your steps towards the echo flower are slow and reluctant.

B e h i n d  y o u

You don’t turn around, even as you hear the pointed _clunks_ of an armoured step. You’re not going to give her the satisfaction. It’s only when you hear the hum of a spear coming into being that prudence overrides spite and you face her. She prepares to speak.

Someone else has heard it too, and they burst out from the rushes, spitting bits of plant as they scatter forwards.

“Yo, Undyne, I’ll help!”

You scarcely have time for a sense of resigned, bitter betrayal to thicken like wax in your chest before they seem to actually notice you, and perk up.

“Aw man, you totally beat me! Hey, are you helping Undyne fight too? _Ow,_ ow ow. Don’t tell my pareeeeents!”

You watch, bemused, as they get dragged away to get grounded, somehow. They don’t even have ears??? It is a mystery. Frisk is trying to smother a glee you think is unwarranted in this situation, and fake-coughs at you thinking this, pointing out where the path diverges as if you don’t already know.

 

It’s suddenly brighter. Can Undyne make the area around her darker, like Papyrus can apparently conjure mist? Or was she using one of the light-absorbing crystals? You probably won’t ever know.

As you walk, you hear a passing conversation.


	15. I Am The First And The Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events come into alignment. The battle against a true heroine commences.

The boards of the bridge clank and groan under your feet. Not for the first time, you avoid looking down for reasons unrelated to acrophobia. Also not for the first time, you wonder if handrails are taboo in monster culture. 

_*People are pretty careful._  
 _*...Usually._

There’s the sound of small claws clacking on the wood behind you. You know that cadence, and you turn to see Monster Kid racing up to you, out of breath. 

“You escaped the feets, I see,” you say as they skid to a halt in front of you and catch it. You don’t really remember what happened here. You think you were extremely busy trying to tip Frisk over the edge into the Abyss, the first time, and while Monster Kid stood up against you here the second time, you haven’t killed anyone at the moment. 

“Hey,” they say, in a way that makes your blood freeze. “Undyne said to stay away from you ‘cause you’re a human, but it’s not true, right?” Their look is pleading. 

“It’s true,” you say flatly. Here it comes. The discovery of your betrayal of them, and then probably bullets. You can’t say you don’t deserve them. You show them the cut on the palm of your right hand, crusted with red-brown. “See? Blood, not dust.”

They look at it closely, snout crinkling but more fascinated than disgusted. “Yo, that’s _super weird_ ,” they blurt, before seeming to remember what’s actually happening. “I mean… I guess that means we’re enemies now.” They sound oddly disappointed by that fact. “You gotta say something mean so I can hate you!” 

“Nobody loves you,” you oblige. “Even when they say they do, it’s only pretend. They’d rather you were gone, but they’re not allowed to show it in front of other people, so they think it instead.” 

*Chara!! 

What? They _asked._

Monster Kid looks visibly crushed, and then recovers admirably. “W-well, you’re a stupid doodoo butt!”

“I have it on good authority that I’m also a meany face,” you add helpfully. “Do you hate me yet?” 

Monster Kid looks at you, face scrunching up. Monsters don’t get constipated, so it’s probably that they’re trying to summon up every ounce of ill will towards you that they can. Eventually they exhale and look away. “Iunno… mostly I just feel like garbage. I’m just... gonna go home now.” 

They start shuffling off at a rate slower than their usual energetic pace. You watch them go, bemused at the abrupt lack of confrontation. Did you break them? 

You see one of their foot-claws catch in the uneven planks a split-second _after_ it’s too late for any warning to be of any use, and they fall forwards and… over the edge. They yelp and scrabble at the stone pillar with their claws, and find precarious purchase in the cracks, calling out for help.

And then you hear the clanking of armor. Undyne, exhibiting the worst timing in the history of the planet as far as you’re concerned. Each heavy footfall causes the bridge to jolt slightly, slowly but surely loosening the absolutely terrified-looking Monster Kid’s grip. You can’t move. She spots you, and spots them, and, realising the danger, halts. You know from the sheer fury in that single eye that she thinks you pushed them off. 

_*Run!_

Who are you and what have you done with Frisk?

_*She’ll rescue them, don’t worry! They’ll be fine!_  
 _*Now’s your chance to get away! She can’t go for you without MK falling, and you’ll get a headstart while she helps them!_

It makes sense. Objectively the best outcome, with the highest chance of success. Everyone walks away unscathed. 

You bolt forward. Your steps are feather-light in comparison. Frisk makes a noise of shock, giving the sensation of someone hanging on the outside of a truck rapidly speeding down a motorway.

_*Chara, what are you-!_

Monster Kid is starting to cry. Their grip fails the exact second you dive for them, and with your pain back you’re very nearly able to count the gnarled joins between each plank as your belly scrapes over them. You reach, and automatically catch the back of their sweater with your mess of a left hand, feel triumphant pain, have an unpleasant remembrance, manage to get your right hand involved before your left loses ground entirely and resume feeling triumph, and then realise with a bucket-of-cold-water-over-the-head clarity that you have nothing left with which to halt all the forward momentum you built up. All in lightning-quick, whiplash succession. 

Monster Kid falls, and so do you.

  
There’s an ongoing high aspirated noise that you disconnectedly and belatedly realise is Frisk’s doing. 

 

And then all of you _jerk_ to a sharp halt, swaying above the pit. Something has closed around your ankle. Given you feel like your heart’s trying to see if it can escape like your SOUL if it beats fast enough, and that your veins are full of more adrenalin than blood, Mx. Rational Thought is currently not in residence and you start furiously kicking at it with your free leg to no avail. 

You, and a very shaken looking Monster Kid, are slowly pulled up, and then, surprisingly gently, lowered back onto the bridge. Well, MK is gently lowered. The grip on your ankle lets go as soon as they’re safely on arbor firma, and you sort of faceplant onto the planks behind them, still with a deathgrip on the back of their sweater. You groan. Oh yeah. That’s another layer of bruises to keep track of. Frisk begins to fuss, with a little bit of a scolding air. They really do take after their mother. 

“You… you really saved our lives, yo!” MK tells Undyne, once again looking like there should be stars in their eyes. You suppose this must be a dream come true for them, even if the circumstances were less than ideal. “We almost were goners!” 

The helmet nods, and then Undyne motions for them to step aside (or at least far enough forward that you’re exposed), summoning a glowing blue spear. You freeze, desperately trying to batter back memory. You can’t afford to lose control here. You _can’t._ There’s not enough _space._ It’s too close to… your thoughts are spiralling. Rough wool under your fingers. Frisk is brokenly humming at you, it _must_ be bad. You’re going to die. 

“Huh?” Monster Kid says. Undyne makes another, sharper motion which you see in your peripheral vision and makes you swallow back _something,_ laughter, bile or vomit, you don’t know. You can’t see Monster Kid’s face from this angle, but the realisation runs through them and you can feel the vibration. Here it is. 

They stand up in front of you; you let them go, your hands falling from them with the movement. “I-If,” they start, and swallow, and continue with more faux-confidence injected into the words. “If you want to hurt my friend, you’re gonna have to go through me!” 

Your head fills up with a suite of exclamation and question marks from both sides. Delighted hopeful gratefulness flavour is likely theirs. Bewildered, some emotion you can’t even name right about now, and a little oddly cheated is likely yours. 

Once again Undyne makes the movement, but MK stays firm. “They tried to save me! And, and, even though they’re mean sometimes, if you think they’re a bad guy, you’re wrong!” 

“She is right, MK,” you murmur at the back of their head. “Leave. You do not have to watch the heroine and villain fight.” They twist, looking between you and Undyne, stricken, muzzle slightly open. 

...Undyne points at you, and then turns and walks away, and you stare after her in wide eyed surprise.

She _never_ gives up.

 

“She’s gone…” MK says, at the exact same time Frisk says the same. Ow. The little lizard monster turns to you, looking just as blindsided as you feel, although considerably happier.

“Man, you… you really helped me there, haha.” The laugh is the shaky one of someone who has come into contact with their own mortality for the first time. “Looks like we aren’t enemies at all! We’re just gonna have to be friends instead.” 

_*It’s the rules._ Frisk projects a sage nod. _*Saving someone’s life means you’re friennnnds!_

You didn’t sign up for this! Where’s the escape clause? That will teach you to not read the terms of service. 

MK appears to remember something. “Oh man, my parents probably know I snuck out again now, they’re gonna _freak!_ I really gotta get home. Don’t tell ‘em about this, okay?” 

You make a lip sealing motion with your right hand. In your estimation, the chances of even _meeting_ MK’s parents are slim, but they seem satisfied with this. 

They start to trot off, turn to you and wave with a foot, wobbling a little. For a moment you think they are going to fall right off the edge again, but they right themself easily. “See you later, dude!” And then they, too, are gone. 

 

 

Frisk lets out a long exhale. You can tell their attitude towards you has been changed by this, but they’re keeping the details occluded. That’s their perogative, you suppose, as you walk towards Hotland with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner heading towards death row. They shift. 

_*I’ve just… been a bad friend,_ they say, and you want to kick them.  
_*No, it’s true!_ You’re not debating that. You can’t pinpoint exactly what your issue with the statement is.  
_*It’s just… you said it yourself. I didn’t really think you could do all this on your own._  
 _*That’s not fair to you._

It’s not as if you gave them much indication. The majority of their experience with a conscious you has been indiscriminate murder on your part, after all. You’re equally as surprised with yourself. (Is it really you at all?) 

_*I should have remembered before that, though! I even told you, nobody made you, that first time. That should have been a clue!_  
 _*You really... don’t need me after all._  
 _*Maybe if I hadn’t interfered at all…_  
 _*You might even have been better than me at this._  
 _*But I backed you into a corner._

Stop. They can’t know what would have _happened._ They will never know, because memory has been set down and neither of you can forget even if the clock is turned back. Maybe this, maybe that. All there is is what happened. You’re not going to comfort them for what they did wrong to you. 

But you are neither going to condemn nor praise them for what they _could_ have done. There is no point. What they _have_ done, is tried. And kept trying. To recognize and correct their mistakes. That, you can respect. You can acknowledge difficulty, and effort in overcoming it. Going against inherent nature is always hard. 

_*You’re doing the same._  
 _*It means a lot. Really!_  
 _*I guess what I’m saying is I misjudged you, and I’m sorry._  
 _*I didn’t really think of you as a person I think_  
 _*More like… a puzzle. Or… a game._  
 _*’Get them to the Surface.’_  
 _*It was like with MK just now._  
 _*I need to get better._

You feel the echo of that need, strong and thick as the still lingering urge for LOVE. If they’re the ‘good one’, then they _have_ to be good. Otherwise, who are they? Well, if they want to dash themselves on that rock for eternity, that’s none of your business. The only comment you’ll make is once more that trust must be earned to be given, and you had not- _still_ have not... 

_*Um, listen_ , they say, as you come up to the second bridge. You pause.  
_*Do you want me in control for this one?_

They sound… strangely reluctant. 

_*I don’t want you to be uncomfortable._

...in some respects forcibly having to share brainspace is a good thing, because you almost might have believed that otherwise! You don’t particularly care about their true motivation. You look out towards where you know Undyne lies in wait, the dim red glow of Hotland in the distance. It would be too much to ask for her to leave you alone after saving MK, would it? You’ll think of something. Maybe if you injure her enough… you have infinite tries at doing so without killing her. And, no lie, it would be cathartic. 

You check your inventory. Maximum INV. 

_*I’ll do it, if you want_ , Frisk says firmly. _*You don’t have to do this alone._  
_*It’s just, if I do..._  
 _*Please don’t disappear._  
 _*I thought that…_

It strikes you like a bolt in one side of your head and out the other. It wasn’t not wanting to be alone. Or it wasn’t _just_ that. They thought they were killing you again. 

_*Yeah._

It’s an uncomfortable realisation, and you shift, shaking the pins and needles out of your legs. You can’t guarantee that won’t happen again. Disappearing… was a defence from the reality of what was happening. Staying totally, fully aware of your body moving under a guidance not your own, in addition to the stressors Undyne brings… that. You can’t see it ending well, to say the least. Bad memories. 

They avert themself, flush with guilt. 

_*You don’t have to_ , they say again, softly. _*Your plan could work!_ They don’t sound too sure. _*It could!_

_*Sometimes_ , they mumble, _*There really is no option but to fight._

This confuses you. You know they absolutely refused to last time, even when the situation seemed equally hopeless to them. 

_*...some things happened. I don’t want to talk about them._  
 _*You’ll find out, anyway._

Spoilers. You exhale. The seed of an idea has been forming, uncertainly. The core question: is it possible for both of you to be in control at once? It’s always been one or the other at the fore before, but you’ve both been able to push actions through against the hold of the controller even so. 

_*!_  
 _*Maybe!_  
 _*Let’s try it!_

_There’s_ the eagerness that went missing. You crack your neck. Alright. This is happening. You’ve decided, no backing out. 

How are you going to do this? Do you just… You try to ease back at the exact same time as Frisk decides to cautiously move forwards, and then there’s a confusing tangle and a horrible moment where _nobody_ is in control and your body falls flat on its face like somebody cut its strings. 

Frisk hurriedly pushes you back in front with a rapidity that almost gives you mental whiplash. _*Sorry, sorry!_

You… decide it’s best to move back off the bridge until the both of you have sorted this out. You inhale and exhale slowly, closing your eyes. 

_*Maybe if I…_ they communicate their plan at you silently and you briefly consider and then send back an equally silent affirmation. You hold yourself in place as best you can as they both seep to the fore and try to push you there as well. 

It… doesn’t _hurt_ but. It’s uncomfortable. It feels confining, and you have never done well with confinement. It’s like oil and water trying to occupy the same space, your inherent natures rebelling against mixing. 

Frisk eases back in concern at the thought. Get back here. You made your decision and you’re sticking to it. They flatface at you, their own determination rising. One more try. They sigh, a ping-response of _are you sure yes I’m sure._

It’s… like a far too intimate game of twister, this time, but better than the first attempt as you wind in and around each other, trying to find the best position, checking against each other. Contortions of form and hot, bad breath and warm, _human_ skin-scrawling skin, only there’s no seam of air between you. It feels precarious, like one wrong move and both of you will go falling over, game end. 

Gradually, as the both of you swap ideas and suggestions and actions faster than words can convey, extricating and integrating and rearranging the edges of yourselves, the discomfort fades. The sense of an extremely rickety tower doesn’t go away, but contact no longer revulses. It just is. This is Frisk, who you know the worst and best of. 

_*This is Chara, who I trust._ You can feel it’s a little teasing, a ‘dramatic much?’ echo, but they feel more at ease too. An indescribable feeling hums between the two of you, an instant, unconscious, thready but strong communication, and its prior absence seems gaping. 

You open your eyes. You… kind of feel a bit like a lava lamp. That’s the best way to describe it. Control is partitioned in pieces across your body, and shifts and moves fluidly. 

“This is-” you start, and then that patch drifts away from your mouth and throat and down to your shoulder blades. You feel strangely calm at this, like you could call it back at any time if you needed to. 

“-so _weird_ ,” Frisk finishes, not missing a beat. “I wonder” _*if we can_ “walk like this?” 

You laugh. It distorts oddly as the larynx moves out of your dominion. You kind of like it. 

 

By popular opinion, your body shambles jerkily forward. Even with the more rapid wordless communication, your coordination is not great, especially when in the stream of _okay, if you do this and I do that and then…_ both of you disagree. It makes you think of the two of you trying to get an extremely large, sight limiting couch up a set of curved stairs, one end each. It makes Frisk think of… some kind of game of flailing limbs? The mental image they send there is as distracting as it is hilarious and you - your body - stumbles, and the both of you bounce thought frantically to keep it from going over the edge. 

You look like you’re _drunk._ So drunk. Frisk giggles maniacally, in both your head and actuality. They’re having far too much fun with this, and it surprises you that you’re experiencing a similar amount considering this body the two of you are badly piloting by committee is the only one you _have._

The first time you both try running, you get it stuck against the wall and it’s almost like you’re having some kind of seizure dance; the two of you _howl_ in mirth. It aggravates your wounds, but neither of you care; pain is present but distant. It feels diluted, split between you. 

After a bit more practice, you think you’re ready to face Undyne. Contagious, looping confidence fills us. Even if this goes badly, _YOLO._

 

We walk towards where she waits, grinning. We still trip and catch ourselves like a newborn calf, but it gets easier and easier with each step. More fluid. We think that maybe we should be concerned about this, but it’s all so _much._ Everything is in high clarity. A new pair of glasses, that aren’t cloudy. We don’t want this to end. This euphoria… is this what drugs are like, or is this just what it means when other people say they’re happy? 

The heroine appears, hair flowing in the breeze. We both try to pay attention to and ignore her monologue at once and that means a headache and missing half of it. That’s okay, because we’re waiting for the _real_ show to start. We’re so excited. We can’t wait. Our breath is catching in our lungs. 

She drops down and lands in front of us, and the world jars. We give her a shuttered-eye smile. Here we are. 

The hum of magic fills the air. Memories race, click, align.

 

And I come into existence.

 

I’ve no time to do more than realise this before spears are flying at me. I brace myself, but… the pattern is so easy it almost throws me off. With Chara’s memory, and Frisk’s intuition, dodging is _effortless._ I could do it with my eyes closed. 

I cup my hands around my mouth. _This_ is what my halves were so uncertain of? Where’s the _challenge?_ I _know_ she can do better! 

“Come on, Undyne!” I cajole. “Let’s skip the warm up, I’m ready!” 

Undyne’s single eye glowers, but she smirks. I think I’ve impressed her a little. “You asked for it, punk!” 

My grin widens. I don’t know who I am, or how I’m here, but I know I was _made for this._ I don’t even flinch as my -our?- _my_ SOUL is swiped green, shield manifesting on my arm ahead of the flurry, and I don’t take my eyes from Undyne’s face as I face danger head on without tanking a single hit. I puff. 

Undyne looks like she’s trying to strangle the spear she’s holding. I politely hold back a laugh. That was pretty good, almost Un _fair_ dyne, but I’d seen harder from her. Still, exhilaration courses through me. 

My SOUL is flicked red as she switches tactics, and I dance backwards through the spears towards Hotland, finishing with a flip. Okay, it looks like whoever I am is a _massive showoff._

“You’re going to have to try a little harder than _that,_ ” I call to her. “You can do it! I believe in you!” 

“Hold still, you little brat!” Letting the words roll off is almost as easy. 

Green, again. This time, I get momentarily switched up by a frankly cheating pattern of normal and yellow arrows, ending up stabbed in the back and temporarily falling forward, catching myself and jumping back up before the next, HP knocked away. There’s fear now, but it only _fuels_ my excitement. 

I _like_ her.

 

She looks good and riled now, so the moment I’m red again I leap away and _sprint,_ racing down the causeway. With my heartbeat in my ears and air rushing in and out of my lungs, I have never felt so alive. 

But technically I’ve only been alive for five minutes, so what would I know? It’s cool and weird and interesting to suddenly _be_ all at once! 

She catches up far too fast; _THUD THUD THUD_ behind me and I can’t press myself to go any faster. It’s _frustrating._

 

I _feel_ bigger, stronger, taller, faster. In experience and instinct, I _should_ be. I should be able to give her a run for her money. But this is still Chara’s body, and Chara’s short legs, and Chara’s stitch in the side. I want to scream a little as the jarring disjunct between perception and reality causes me to trip over them, and I’m caught. 

She swipes for me with her armored hand, and I duck under. MISS. Spears come up, and I roll. Spears come down, and I sidestep. Spears come from all sides, and I jump. MISS, MISS, MISS. Well, she is Miss Undyne, I think, and immediately feel guilty for chuckling. I break away, and make another run for it, and am just as quickly stopped short. Still, I’m making progress! 

This one is harder. She’s getting really angry. I’m panting, and starting to sweat. There’s no room for error in this pattern, and I make one, the last spear heading straight towards my chest with no time to dodge. 

Memory threatens to surface for the first time here, and something else flares. _No,_ I think, and swipe my hand across my chest just before the tip touches my SOUL. The spear winks out of existence.

 

… Holy shit. Fudge. I just. I stare at where it was, and then at my hand, surprise and satisfaction and protectiveness coiling in me. I just _ERASEd_ it. Where did it go? _I_ don’t know. 

I… step away to the side, and I LOAD. The spear appears exactly where it was before, and bounces once off the stone before undergoing a true dissipation. This… changes so much. Can I do that again? 

Can I do that with _anything?_

Undyne’s come to a halt, eye narrowed. “So _that’s_ human magic, huh? Fuhuhuhu. Don’t think that’s enough to stop me!” She lunges forward. I look up at her. 

Can I do that with _her?_

No, no, bad thought, no. I try to cram the sheer tidal wave of _curiosity_ into the communal Feelings Box. I don’t know if I’d be able to get her _back,_ I tell myself. A monster isn’t a bullet. It’s nowhere near enough to make it go away, but it’s enough of a fulcrum to force it to remain just that: a thought. Still a tempting one. 

Focusing on running and dodging helps too. 

...is that Sans? Of course it’s Sans. Why wouldn’t it be Sans? What is _with_ the snow. Does he just shortcut his station all over the place, too? He looks really peaceful when he’s sleeping. Okay, that was _not_ you.

 

...we’re wavering. I grit my teeth and press my lips into a thin line. Keep it together. Not far now. Almost there. I skid to a halt in front of the water cooler, and turn, and patiently wait. Undyne finishes getting distracted fighting the urge to chew Sans out, and advances. I pass the time filling a plastic cup with water as she stomps forward. I think this annoys her, but I’m not facing her so I can’t really tell. 

She collapses in a clang and clatter of metal, and I step over to her. I crouch down in front of her and tilt my head. She’s heat-glazed, but still conscious. Good. I pat her cheek a little to get her attention, and her eye comes into focus on me. 

Slowly, deliberately, and holding her gaze the entire time, I tip out the cup of water directly in front of her, close enough that flecks of the liquid bounce off the hard, hot ground and hit her scales. She glares. 

Point made, I turn and fetch another cupful, and toss its contents on her face. I’m cruel, but not _that_ cruel. 

Wordlessly, she gets to her feet, and leaves. I wait until I can’t see her (Sans seems to have disappeared, as usual) and go to the cooler to grab another cup, downing it. I stare down at my hands in curiosity. They’ve got aftershock tremors. I slowly sink down to a sitting position, resting my back against the coldness of the water cooler, and shakily exhale, laughing a little. 

That sure was a ride.

 

She’s gone. There’s no reason for me to exist anymore.

 

We fall apart.

 

* * *

You bolt upright and race from zero to sixty in the hyperventilation stakes. You can feel Frisk also panicking and the two of you rocket to opposite sides of your skull, pressing yourselves up against the walls in a desperate bid to get as far away from each other as possible. What just- 

_*We just-_

Happened!? Did the two of you- 

_*fused?? I didn’t know it_

Just lose yourselves!? It was- 

_*was possible I’m so sorry I_

Worse than when you went snooping 

_*should have remembered the amalgamates I_

Neither you or Frisk existed and what 

_*should have tried to stop it this_

The fuck were you thinking!? Of 

_*is all my fault what if we’d_

Course the moment you put your faith in something 

_*gotten stuck?? What if we… they…_

You mess it up and almost kill Frisk because both of you were 

_*didn’t decide to… die…_

Dead and you’d corrupted them with your ugly self 

_*and Chara was gone forever_

They didn’t deserve that. 

_*They didn’t deserve that._

 

You blink. The thought echoes in your head, disturbing in its resonance, forcibly drawing attention once more to each other’s existences. You and Frisk regard each other uneasily. 

You look down, at the plastic cup still in your hand, and with a strangled angry noise you stand up and throw it into the lava. You make to push the cooler in as well, and Frisk makes a series of exclamation marks at you. You stop, and rest your frame on it instead. The Waterfall water is already starting to evaporate from your clothes. 

_*This._  
 _*This happened with me and my brother too, sort of._  
 _*But I thought since we were both human…ish..._

You remember, even if reviewing the shared memory makes you feel ill. An itching dissatisfaction with their - your - _their_ form. 

_*This was… different, though._

They give impression to you. Most of the remembrance is blocked out in shifting black scribble, but the feeling remains; two fighter plane pilots who know each other well enough to work together seamlessly as one unit ticking off a landing checklist together. Whereas this felt like a battered Toyota, a brick tossed on the accelerator, two pairs of hands on the same steering wheel and someone trying to use what they think is the brake and inadvertently trapping someone else’s foot on the clutch. 

_*...yeah._  
 _*You’re really good at that._  
 _*Metaphors, I mean! Not driving. Um. I mean._

Ordinarily watching them dig this conversational hole would give you amusement, but you’re really not feeling it right now.

 

The idea of never letting this happen again… fills you with determination.


	16. Burn/Cauterise, Cut/Excise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vicarious - a replacement for actual experience.
> 
> Or, never trust artificial flavouring. Accept no substitutes.

The Lab is air-conditioned. 

This is pretty much the only thing going for it, you feel. Why is it so dark? You eye the screen displaying you, and then turn towards the camera currently supplying the feed and do your best smile at it, holding it until you think anyone watching it would be appropriately unsettled. 

There. 

You move forward, savouring the cool air while you can. Let’s see, if you remember correctly after here there’s… 

You almost run smack bang into a lizard. 

 _*Hi, Alphys!_  

This is the one who almost locked you out last time? The anime lover? You’re… not sure what you were expecting, to be honest, and so you let it drop. The lizard seems far too happy to see you, and also a little flustered. Nobody has ever been that happy to see you, unless they wanted something from you. 

 _*..._  

She starts fussing about not being prepared and watching you and you decide you’re done with this conversation already and walk right past her. Her mouth drops open and she holds up a paw. 

“Uh, wait! You d-don’t-!” 

The door slides shut on the patter of claws as you get hit with a wave of heat. You stretch, and then stride forward. 

 _*That’s rude, Chara_. 

 _You’re_ rude, deal with it. 

_*She was going to upgrade your phone!_

_*You can still go back and get it._

_*It’d get two dimensional boxes attached!_  

They’re doing The Thing again. You stop and fold your arms, staring off at a lava flow in the distance. 

 _*Um. What thing?_  

Don’t play dumb. They know exactly the Thing you’re talking about. What do they _really_ want? If they do the Thing again to avoid talking about why they were doing the Thing, you’re going to turn right back and ask Undyne to skewer you again. 

They shuffle. You experience smugness. You have them dead to rights. 

_*Don’t be mad at her, okay? But Alphys doesn’t feel good about herself much._

_*So she’s going to try and help you to feel better_

_*Only a lot of the things she’s going to help you from are things she made so she could._

_*If you went with it, it’d really help her out. And you’d be dealing with it all anyway_

_*Since she set it up ahead of time._  

Or, and here’s a thought, you could _not._ You dislike dishonesty. Why would you reward it? You find yourself disliking her already. Her scarceness and the fact that you were stuffed to the gills with LV meant that she hadn’t registered on your radar with any kind of emotional valence last time, but you can respect what she did now, and if she’s just going to _play_ at what she is… 

_*She doesn’t know she can do that, though!_

_*She’s um… made a lot of mistakes_

_*She thinks she’s worthless_  

You wonder if Frisk thinks about you and your motivations in such blunt terms, but then again, they’ve already demonstrated they do. Well, you could always start creating a _real_ crisis to solve… 

Frisk doesn’t even twitch. You huff. 

* _It… wouldn’t work anyway_

_*It takes a lot for her to trust herself with helping people now_

_*It’s why she’s making the ‘problems’._

_*Because she knows she can solve them._  

You exhale. 

_*Please, Chara._

_*She…_  

They debate a bit, and then give an impression of _entrapment_ and sound, grey and sounding like it’s garbled underwater - _something cowardly_ \- and it’s gone as soon as it’s there. 

You slowly make your way over to the edge of the walkway, and sit, legs dangling over the edge. You doubt this is something Alphys would have wanted them to tell. 

_*We share the same head._

_*We’re kind of sort of the same person, technically!_  

 **No.** We are _not_. Your head fuzzes, fritzing like static, and you press a palm to it. They’ve withdrawn somewhat. 

 _*You’d have found out anyway._  

For the first time a sense of _fate_ presses down on you, of being tied to train tracks and they’re doing their level best to be the rope. It makes your skin crawl. There’s something they’re not telling you. As usual. They’re as bad as Sans. They have an agenda. They only push things this much when they do. Are they going to share with the class? 

 _*..._  

You thought not. 

_*Hhhh_

_*Alphys is really important to things that happen later_

_*Really, REALLY important_

_*Trust me._  

Ahahahahhahahahahah. _No_. After all, it’s not like they’re trusting you either, are they? In this case, trusting you to know. They cringe. 

_*I just…  
*It was a really good outcome, that first time._

_*And I’m worried if I say too much it’ll change_

_*I’m worried too much has changed already._  

Is it an outcome they think you would not approve of? 

 _*No…_  

Is it an outcome they think you would try to sabotage if you knew? 

 _*That’s not-!_  

So why is it that they cannot _tell_ you? You are _sick_ of being kept in the dark. 

_*It breaks the barrier without killing anyone_

_*But it all hinges on Flowey._  

Ugh. 

 _*He remembers if we load, so we have to be really careful._  

So blindly following their instructions won’t tip him off, whereas hypothetically performing the same actions with context will? You don’t think you like their logic. For the last time. Tell, or stop pestering you when you move forward. 

They fidget, and then press a vague sketch of their plan into your mind. 

It is utterly, completely bonkers. It relies too much on giving too much to someone of unknown trustworthiness and malicious nature. Too much that is not _his,_ or _theirs_ to decide to give. 

 _*We can convince them!_  

They have no confirmation this will work. 

 _*He’ll listen to me!_  

Why! How do you know him, Frisk? Why is this flower so obsessed with you? They shrink back, sullen and dark, closing off. 

_*This is why I didn’t tell you._

 This is why I didn't tell you, Chara. I knew you'd overreact. Damn skippy they didn’t! You are not a pawn, Frisk! What was that about not seeing people as game pieces? They should put their money where their mouth is! 

 _*Sorry_  

Walking into the lava really is very tempting right now. Maybe you’d get to find out what it feels like. More likely you’d just evaporate before you hit the surface. You drum your heels on the obverse of the ledge. 

When is this going to _stop?_  

 _*_ _Sorry_  

Silence falls. 

_*I…_

_*I really am worried about Alphys._

_*You don’t have to go along with the rest of it but… please?_  

Are they hoping to get a wedge in the door? 

 _*No!_  

You weren’t lying. You _can’t_ trust them. Even if they decided, told you ‘from now on, no more secrets’, you’d never be able to be sure that was true. 

_*..._

_*We could merge again_

_*I wouldn’t be able to hide anything_  

Absolutely not, and they know it, which is why they offered it as a solution, wasn’t it? 

 _*I’m… not_ that _good at this, Chara._  

 _*..._  

 _*He’s my brother._  

You stiffen, gripping the edge with your hand tightly. The overfamiliar, stalking _creep_ is their brother? The one completely at odds with what they’ve told you of him? 

The one you… killed. Viciously. Suddenly what you caught of the flower’s babbling fits far too much. 

 _*That’s him._ They sound drawn and wrung out. _*That’s why when he thought you were me…_  

You don’t believe them. You can’t. How can a flower monster be a boss monster? It doesn't make sense!  Instead of pressing the ground, your hands move up to your head, the working fingers curling. Was that what they meant by ‘meeting him properly’? They’ve been leading you by the nose here the entire time! 

 _*…_  

The frying pan is somewhere in this area, if you recall correctly. Some HP regen would be nice. You stride forward in mutual silence, save for a hiss through your teeth when your besocked foot unexpectedly first comes in contact with the hot exposed pipe. There’s a pit of illness and anger in your stomach that won’t go away, the hot flavour of guilt, and the dry air makes you pant.

 

Eventually, Frisk speaks up. 

_*He thought he was helping me._

_*He thought he was doing what I wanted._

_*What we_ both _wanted._

They didn’t think to, say, _tell_ you this?  
  
_*You killed my mom._

* _Wouldn’t have made a difference._

It’s said flatly, bluntly, matter-of-factly, and you know with internal coil that they are right. It wouldn’t have. In fact, you might have attacked him with further prejudice, at that point. It didn’t keep him safe, in the end, but it was part of their doing whatever they could to stop you – until the LOVE spilling out of you choked it out. 

You can almost picture their closed off expression. 

It’s a comfort, you think, that despite claims and appearances, they haven’t forgiven you. 

_*There’s a difference between forgiving and pretending it didn’t happen._

_*Pretending it was okay._

Their voice is that dull, firm intonement that you have learned to take caution at, neck-hairs prickling, the grey featureless slate of _my turn now_. Frisk’s words sound parroted, someone else’s; not rote but like they’re dusting them off and pulling them out for the occasion – the fine china. 

They seemingly shake themself, forcibly push colour into their tone, a faint warmness, a minor press of comfort. It reads as both true and false. Dealing with Frisk is unpeeling layer of sincere insincerity after insincere sincerity. You both occupy the same mindspace, and the fact that even with that you _still_ can’t read them without losing yourself itches at you. 

_*It’s okay, Chara_

_*Messed up again._

_*Did it again._

_*Didn’t ask, just assumed._

It’s nice they’re having this realisation now. Really, very nice. You’ve stopped walking. You sit on the hot earth, ears pricked for monsters but staring down. You press your injured hand to it – the heat soothes as it sinks into the bone more than it burns. Pity. 

You realise why the sudden shift, every time it happens, makes ingrained instincts prickle. 

Again, nobody has ever been that happy – appeared to be that happy – towards you unless they wanted something from you. Things like that have never proceeded anything good. What Frisk has told you; you _know_ they have not told you everything relevant to you. The tip of the iceberg – you are no stranger to confessing to a smaller crime to carefully avoid mention of a larger one. Once more you become acutely aware of Frisk’s presence and the fact that separation is impossible. 

You press you palms to your eyes, hard enough to feel the pressure on your eyeballs, and lean back, pushing your head towards the ceiling. When will the other shoe, or a sword of Damocles, drop? 

They say nothing. A vague flicker, leaking and wiped away in haste, of something more dog eared than it was left, of a flickering screen with something subtly different about it, of objects silently shifted and drawers ever so oddly ajar. Evidence maybe not immediately apparent, at first, until the sense of wrongness gets too much or- _or-_  

They slam the train of thought off the rails, tamp it down; they press a mental map of the route ahead into the forefront of your mind, and withdraw. You don’t follow it, or them. You’re very not inclined to. You spend some time picking your fingernails clean instead, without looking at them. You hoard control of one sort. And as for them… 

… 

Their plan is a terrible plan. Yet the flower was loyal until the very end, not to you, but to the idea of _them_ , at least until his its – his – own survival came into question. It crawls at you to think. You resented its unasked-for help and presence. You are not going to _use_ it, like you yourself have been used. Interesting, that their so-claimed brother is not exempt from this. 

There’s the echo of a sensation like that of being stung from them, and they curl up tighter, folding arms over head. 

You take your phone out, and call Toriel. You yourself have no idea why; probably because it is the only function the phone has. It rings three times, and then goes to voicemail. 

“Hello! This is Toriel! Unfortunately, I am unable to use the phone at this moment, my child. Perhaps it has been stolen by a dog again. …  Still, feel free to leave me a message! I will respond very soon.” 

 _Beep._ There’s a shaky inhale that has nothing to do with you. 

You don’t leave a message. You put it on the ground, pause and adjust it so the antenna points straight away from you, and stare at it until the time allotted runs out. Then you pocket it, and stand. 

They stir. No words; just a vague sense of listless enquiry.

 

This is what you are doing; you are getting the phone upgrade. You are going to play along with Alphys’s game. Anything more than that… no. You will talk later. 

 _*…thank you._

You snort. You point out that the ‘getting you things that you wanted anyway’ tactic means that, in effect, this much is on your part purely for your self-interested agenda rather than their sake. Thanks are, therefore, unearned. 

_*I didn’t mean-_

_*…_

_*..._

_*I could… pretend, for a bit._

Oh. 

You start walking back towards the laboratory, your previously sodden clothes already approaching merely damp. This had better be worth it. They immediately brighten, or at the very least, make their previous mood suspiciously vanish, a circus trick. 

 _*It will be,_ promise.

 _*But also...  
__*Alphys’s game is actually kind of fun!_  
_*You might just…_ enjoy yourself. 

A spooky tone and a waggle of non-existent fingers. You make a half-hearted play at shuddering. How dare they. You don’t enjoy anything. 

 _*Not even chocolate?_  

You don’t _enjoy_ chocolate, you _appreciate_ it, there’s a difference. 

They snort-giggle, and you have the off-kilter sense of having once more reached an uneasy equilibrium.

 

* * *

 

When you enter, the immediate view of the lab is lizardless. For some reason, there’s also a hole in the wall that wasn’t there before. You turn smartly to the right and ride the conveyor belt up. This is a feature that should be in every house, you think. You get the silently guided tour of Alphys’s interests – Frisk pushes at you to try and taste the pink goo leaking out of an odd cousin to a woodchipper, claiming it’s icecream, and that since she’s going to be helping you anyway, she probably wouldn’t mind too much if you took some… 

You’re not so easily fooled. 

You step off at a grey foam bed-couch-thing facing a widescreen TV inset into the wall. You can hear Japanese, so it must be a subbed version. 

You creep up on the red felt blanket that is probably concealing a small yellow lizard, and stand _right_ behind it, smiling. 

“Doctor.” 

There’s a sound that can only be described as a squawk, and a small bowl of stress-noodles goes flying. You can’t believe this is a thing you actually managed to achieve in real life. You are the master of jumpscares, it’s you. You silently mentally hold out a palm and Frisk wryly high-fives you. You’ll turn them to the dark side yet. 

“Oh my g-god?? Don’t do that?” The blanket falls from Alphys as she turns, claws coming up Kilroy-fashion over the edge of the bed-couch thing. “Wait. You actually came back?” You watch as she fumbles with her askew glasses, straightening them, and struggles with the remote until the screen goes dark in the middle of a transformation sequence. She smooths down her blue pyjamas with her claws. “I m-mean. Uh. Did you run into any trouble out there? A-are you okay, I was going to warn you! But you… uh, walked out before I could.” 

“No time like the present,” you say, completely brushing that off. You’re a good actor. 

* _No you’re not._  

She clacks her two index claws together with a mildly forced-looking smile, takes a breath and starts explaining about a… rogue robot? Accidentally made out for blood. The words come more smoothly; either passion or rehearsed. You will admit, it’s a good plotline. Not too complicated, but with a decent hook. It sets up the focal conflict nicely. 

Thanks to her description, and Frisk’s previous patchy infodump, you can guess who the ‘robot’ will be. It seems like a mutually beneficial relationship. 

“-actually a good thing you left? He came right by after, looking for you. It’s why there’s a massive hole in my wall r-right now.” 

She sounds as displeased as anyone with the prospect of having to deal with replacing drywall should be.

_*I wonder how long he was waiting in there…_

_*I guess he got impatient?_  

She waves her paws at you. 

“D-don’t worry! I didn’t tell him where you went! I’m on your side. But he uh, might come back? I don’t think he believed me when I s-said I wasn’t hiding you.” 

And there’s a nice impetus to kick off the plot. You hum a little. She’s not bad at roleplay, even if she’s had to improvise a bit. 

And of course you could throw it off track by heading back to Waterfall instead of moving forward into Hotland, if you liked. Still, you’ve decided to play along. You’ll behave. _For now._ Frisk bleps at you. 

“I was told you could upgrade my phone.” 

And to an extent. Frisk rolls nonexistent eyes. 

“Oh, s-sure! Just give it here,” she says. Her eyes widen as you produce Toriel’s brick, and she proceeds to insult it and then run over to the table with tools on it with it, deftly taking off the back off with a screwdriver and then doing… things… to the insides. 

You can agree with her on it being a museum piece. You think you might _actually_ have seen something like it in a museum. 

_*In 201x, these were cutting edge!_

_*Well, in the Underground, anyway._  

It makes sense, if their technological advancement is literally trickle-down. Frisk sounds more mock-offended than anything. 

 _*What are future phones like?_  

Excuse them, this is the _present_. They stick their tongue out at you again. Maybe it will stick that way. 

 _*It’d save me time!_  

You snort. Before you can explain anything about what you know of contemporaneous telecommunications, Alphys returns. You blink. There is no way she could have done that that fast. 

 _*Told you she’s good._  

They did no such thing. The scientist holds out your phone and starts rambling as you take it and examine it. It looks largely the same, save for a huge button marked ‘JETPACK’ on the back. You’re extremely tempted to press it. Right now. 

_*Don’t press it! Don’t press it!_

_*Not indoors!_  

Spoilsport. You’re not entirely convinced it isn’t just a prop for Alphys’s game, however, so you leave it alone. 

“H-here you go! I added texting capabilities and the dimensional box app and tweaked the signal so you can actually receive from here, because umm. We’re pretty close to the CORE here and that c-can make reception go a little haywire. And I even signed you up for Undernet! I uh, added you as a friend already, hope y-you don’t mind.” She laughs, a little nervously, and then points with a claw, trailing off. “Heh…heh. … Oh, and there’s a keychain.” 

You look at the keychain. It’s a tassel-thing, with a small figurine of a character you don’t recognize. 

 _*It looks cute._  

“S-so… yeah! I-if you need help… y-you can? Always c-call me? And I could…” 

You decide to spare her, pocketing the phone. “I will keep it in mind.” Just that much seems to appease her. An awkward silence falls where you wait to see if she’ll say anything else and she glances back and forth. 

“Right! I need to… go do things! I-important things!” 

She rushes off post haste, and there’s the sound of a metal door sliding and then slamming. You guess you’re done here? Frisk confirms, and then tells you to take the instant noodles in the fridge. You don’t. You exit the lab. Judging by the sign next to the door yellow feet are tapping under, you guess the ‘important things’ are going to the bathroom. 

You haven’t even gotten ten metres from the door when the phone buzzes. 

[whoops, I forgot to watch undyne fight the human (#ﾟﾛﾟ#)]

A few more steps. 

[oh well, i’ll ask her how it went later! I bet she was great… as usual =^.^=] 

A few _more_ steps. 

[rn should help the human… still can’t believe I’m actually doing this! lol] 

You take a few more steps, and wait. Anything _more,_ Alphys? No? Good. You step onto the conveyor belts with alacrity. 

[oh my god I forgot I told them to call they’re probably expecting me to call them too instead of text @^@; ]

[good going alphys!] 

After a battle with a very unhelpful helpful lava monster (reminds you of Frisk _*Hey!_ ) and status updates on Alphys struggling to call you, you have had enough of this. You take out the phone. You’ll call _her._  

[okay, i’m going to do it!!!! 3… 2… 1…] 

...she didn’t put her number in your contacts. This strikes you as a grievous oversight. For some reason, every single function the phone now has has been placed under a menu marked ‘ACT’. _This_ strikes you as pointless. 

The phone rings and on the first ring you answer it. 

“Alphys,” you say evenly. Sadly, you don’t get as much of a reaction as you thought you might; a slightly nervous-distracted confirmation rather than anything as spectacular as flying ramen again. 

 _*You troll._  

The way Frisk says it is borderline affectionate, so you assume it’s some 201X slang and leave it at that to focus on Alphys explaining, extremely badly if clearly, how to move through lasers you already know how to deal with. 

Once you’re already through, there’s a few more pings. You think about ignoring them, because they're probably equally as unimportant, and you again take out your phone longsufferingly in case they aren’t.

  
  
[Wait, who told them I could fix their phone???]  
  
[i guess… I have? A fan?? lmaooo] 

[Maybe Undyne told them… <3 ]  
  
You pocket the phone as Frisk makes a very small delighted squeaking noise.

 

They aren’t.

 

* * *

 

 

You can’t stop laughing. 

You’re almost bent double laughing, and it’s getting very difficult to dodge. You’re pretty sure your entire face is red by this point. There’s tears in the corners of your eyes. 

Frisk is sending you nothing but question marks and the emotion Concern. 

“I-h-h-h-h-h It’s,” you achieve. “Hhahaha. A _tsundereplane_. Oh my god.” 

_*Um._

_*Yes?_  

“A _tsundereplane,_ ” you insist. Above you, the plane monster huffs at you and turns up its nosecone, affronted, and that sets you off all over again. It’s your turn again, but it’s going to have to just wait a moment. You think you’re getting a stitch. 

 _*That’s… what I said?_  

“I-It’s,” you wheeze. “Not like it likes me or anything!” 

 _*Are you okay._  

You’re not sure why you’re still laughing. It’s funny, but not _that_ funny. You just can’t seem to stop. It’s like the ridiculousness of absolutely everything you’ve experienced down here is just hitting you all at once. 

 _*Didn’t know tsundereplane was anime,_ Frisk muses, shifting to be ‘next’ to you, and you make a long aspirated breathless rasping noise in response because it’s all your abused diaphragm can manage anymore while you lie curled up on the warm ground, shoulders shaking. 

Tsundereplane hovers awkwardly overhead, close but not too close, clearly not knowing what do with this development. Same, really.

 

* * *

 

 

You stumble into a… kitchen, just. In the middle of the walkway. Clean looking. Somehow blissfully cool. It’s very obviously a trap, and you step into it anyway. 

Spotlights flood your vision, and you shade your eyes against them, squinting. Augh. Bright light isn’t an issue for you usually, but there’s something about going from darkness straight to it which makes your eyes feel like they’re being personally attacked. 

Which is to say, you are already in a bad mood before confetti suddenly starts settling in your hair like a bird that doesn’t understand personal space.  
  
* _You’re always in a bad mood_ , Frisk observes, helpfully. You start smiling, faux cheerily. You’d say you have reason to be, _don’t you?_  
  
_*..._

 _*Yeah._

You watch a bombastic box wheel in, somehow in a sassy manner. You didn’t think that was possible, but there it is. You remember him. It’s strange seeing him for longer than a brief appearance; most of what you know of him is through the filter of Frisk’s memories. You were rather busy at the time. In fact...  
  
...Where are the legs? You remember a disproportionate amount of focus on legs. Do they not happen yet? When does he become NEO? Frisk covers their face - which if they had one anymore, would probably be as beet red as their SOUL was - with their hands and curls up in the back. Well then. Shall you serve them their own medicine? You hold the reins of control thoughtfully. Would you say this counts as a date with a killer robot?  
  
_*NoooOOOOoo_  

They bat at your presence with their hands. Oh look, suddenly this leg is theirs. How did that happen. It is a mystery. The toes on it squinch up, much like their currently much-less-physical face. 

Things don’t get much further than that, because there’s an ever so slightly impatience-underlined robotic cough, and you look up at the square holding a gloved fist in front of his.... screen. Nerd.  
  
_*You’re one to talk!_  

Well it does take one to know one, does it not?  
  
“AS I WAS SAYING, DARLING, THE INGREDIENTS ARE _RIGHT_ THERE ON THE BENCH.” 

It’s amazing how much tones under tones can say, a slight roll to the r. Frisk mentally indicates said objects for you, almost drawing a red circle around them in the corner of your vision. You contemplate deliberately being obtuse about their whereabouts, but you’ve probably been grinning evilly into space like a weirdo for long enough. You did decide to play along, after all. Even if you have to guess what you’re doing here from context. You sure hope this isn’t live! 

You almost fall over when you go to move over to the ingredients, and the leg you forgot you gave Frisk doesn’t respond. _*Oh, sorry!_ , they say, and try moving it in accordance… a full second later. Everything turns into a mild disaster before they hurriedly toss control back to you and you catch yourself on the bench. It’s your turn to feel your cheeks heating up. They did that on purpose, didn’t they? 

 _*No!_  
  
You don’t believe them, but you can accept this petty revenge. You have the strangest feeling that this is not going to be the most humiliating thing to happen to you on television. 

You have some difficulty picking the things up for obvious hand-related reasons and in the end just scoop them all up in your arms in frustration, before dumping them without a care on the opposite bench. Miraculously, none of the eggs break, although a cloud of flour does go flying up. You cough. 

 _*S’better than what I did,_ Frisk says somewhat shamefaced while you try extremely hard not to think of dust, leaning against you. _*I put the milk and flour_ on top of _the_ _eggs. Splat! He was really good about it, though._  

Well that only makes sense, if he had one made beforehand. There’s a noise of surprise from them.  
  
_*Does that mean you rememb-_  

You know how cooking shows work, Frisk. 

They blep at you again, their apparent new favourite pasttime. You watch as Mettaton revs up a… _chainsaw?_ Did Alphys give him hers? Well, okay. You suppose this is _acting_ , since any monster can just suck your soul out of your chest and kill you that way. 

...if they destroy your SOUL, they don’t get it, do they? You can feel Frisk shrug.  
  
_*Maybe it’s different because we can LOAD?_  
_*I… wasn’t here with the other kids, I don’t know._

  
You watch, unimpressed, as the whirring tip gets closer to your chest. You still can’t tell if it’s real or a very good prop, but you can appreciate the pulsing red light from the robot’s screen as dramatically appropriate. You can’t tell if you’re just standing here because you know it’s just a show, or because you kind of actually do want to get carved up by a chainsaw. Just to see what it’s like. 

You’re practically a death connoisseur at this point. 

Alphys, displaying good timing for once, rings. You think you can hear the slight crinkling of a wrapper. You have to admit the substitute idea is neat in broad concept, although vegan… ?  
  
_*Yeah, milk and eggs..._  
_*She’s just a little flustered though!_  
 _*She hates phonecalls, remember, she’s outside of her comfort zone._  
  
They sound a little proud. You’re a little underwhelmed. She set this up herself, Frisk, it’s her own fault she has to do them. 

 _*Exactly!_ They’re beaming. 

...sometimes, Frisk’s machinations escape you. You press the jetpack button before Alphys is even halfway through her explanation, but honestly, that you waited even that long should be an achievement in and of itself. It’s a _jetpack_ , hypothetically. 

You expected Frisk to mildly scold you for it, as the phone unfolds, and unfolds, and Alphys hides disappointment in her tone, but all you hear from them is a _*Hee._  

Then pschoooo, you’re rocketing up! 

Frisk gives directions on where to go to dodge the various human-SOUL dressings, more suggestion than order, pointing out the gaps. It mildly annoys you anyway - you can do this on your own, Frisk - and they stop. Just in time for you to get hit dead in the face with a cloud of flour. 

There’s a smothered noise of amusement from them, and you mentally kick their shins. They mentally do the same thing back. Looks like you’re a bad influence. 

Still, it’s… surprisingly easy to lose yourself in this. There’s a set goal. There’s a timer and obstacles to make getting there an interesting challenge, but not an impossible one. Discerning your state of progress is effortless. Unlike Papyrus’s puzzles, it’s something possible to fail, no hidden switch. Still, you have the sneaking suspicion there’s some kind of failsafe to stop you just falling out of the sky when you run out of fuel - Alphys wouldn’t want to lose her self-esteem meal ticket. 

It’s like you blink, and you’re already at the top. You absolutely do not think of a similar, dustier state of progress. How much are you in control? 

...Is the ‘human soul substitute’ a tin of cat food? _Ouch._ A touch, a touch, you do declare! You like the cut of this robot’s jibe. You would have thought that, if your soul tasted like anything, it would be tar or rot, but you suppose cat food makes sense as an option. 

Frisk is just resting head on ephemeral folded arms, exuding content. 

_*See? Told you it might be fun!_

_*You liked it better than I did, I kept trying to fly away_

_*See where I could go before the fuel ran out._  

Gosh, Frisk, you rebel without a cause. Such flagrant rulebreaking script-jumping. Were their reactions worth it? 

They swat at you, only it ends up a light pap. _*No!_  

A pause. 

 _*They_ were _really confused, though._  

You’re on the ground again, having been gently lowered down - looks like your hunch was right. The robot has vanished again. Alright. You can concede that this was something that could possibly have been defined as ‘fun’. 

 _*Yes!_  

Stop punching the air, what did it ever do to you, Frisk?

 

Mettaton evaporates as soon as the spotlight does, and you proceed onwards into Hotland.

 

* * *

 

 

The CORE shimmers in heatwaves a distance away; impossible to tell how far, because it’s impossible to tell the size. You stand there and watch it, and slowly sit crosslegged, back straight, hands in lap. Mechanical echoes grind across the air like a heartbeat. 

Alphys has been expositing about it, increasingly disjointed; you listen with half an ear and she stops, even if you can tell Frisk wanted to know more, and is a bit put out about it. That you’re getting better at reading them is a vague concern. 

 _*I really liked learning about magic stuff,_ they say, as you feel a bead of sweat trickle down your neck. You’re glad this place is more sauna than steam room. Let you guess- they wanted to learn how to do it? 

_*Yeah. I… um_

_*I wanted to_ be _a monster, is it weird?_  

You prop your elbows onto your lap, hunch forward your head onto your palms. Such bad form, Chara, will not be tolerated in this house. 

It’s not weird. You understand, you think. They wanted to be like their new family. Fit in. Conform. Not be the outsider, the freak everyone stares at and whispers about. Be ‘normal’, and normal for monsters is monster. 

_*..._

_*..._

_*I couldn’t do it._

_*Humans can learn magic - that’s what all the books said; humans made the Barrier, so it should be possible, right?_

_*But nothing she tried or I tried or Dad tried or, or Asriel tried worked, even though I was determined to make it work._

_*Mom said perhaps I was something called magic-dead._

_*Well, it had a longer thing. Name. But that’s what my brother called it, until he suddenly stopped for some reason?_

_*It’s easier to say, though._

_*Mom and Dad took me to…._

_*Took me to…_  

Their thoughts seem to skip and judder, slide off something like oiled glass. Their mounting confused frustration each time they slam against it and come away again matches your own rising, if dilute, alarm. 

 _*I got tested,_ they end up declaring instead, which assuages it somewhat - they haven’t become the mind-voice equivalent of a broken record after all. Having that in your head would be arguably worse than the usual. _*And the results came back I had it._  

 _*I think.. Dad?_ They sound uncertain. _Said that it was something some monsters got too. Only it was worse for them because humans are tough and their bodies don’t need magic to exist._  

_*Only their SOULs._

_*..._

_*So that was the end of magic lessons!_

_*But I was still really interested in magic, so I kept learning about it._  

It’s said with a warmth you intimately know to be false. You think this is the most words about themself they’ve ever spoken to you in one go, perhaps not discounting their story about their brother, and their tirade at you. 

What was the point of telling you this? 

 _*...not everything I do has a point_ -_-;

_*S’just why I wanted to hear more of Alphys talking about it._

 

 

_*!_

 

 _*I just remembered, though-_ you _can_ _do magic, Chara!_

_*When you think about it... That’s what saving and loading is!_

_*And there’s that weird… red thing you did to my dagger and locket._  

You’d almost forgotten about that. Things were very dreamlike at that point – nightmarelike for everyone else. Even now, you’re unsure if it was something you simply pictured hard enough to burn it into recall, rather than anything that took place in actuality. For some reason, saving and loading didn’t occur to you as some kind of _magic_ at all. 

You’ve never done anything even resembling a spell before you fell into the Underground. The properties of the Underground, or pooled will… was this what you were missing, when you considered this before?  
  
_*I think…_

_*I think it’s me._

_*’A monster with a human soul becomes a beast of unfathomable power’._

_*Even if I can’t do magic I. Um. I know I can make other people better at it._  

You had a sense they were paraphrasing the texts. So, it seems the evidence you _are_ some kind of demon is mountain up after all, so to speak. Frisk uncontrollably handed you the training wheels to the destruction of all they held dear. 

They fidget, and say nothing. You start shifting to get up. 

 _*Wait!_  

You stop. 

 _*Do you…_ want _to learn it?_  

They sound far too hopeful. They should be jealous, shouldn’t they? Not to mention, reluctant to give you _more_ power. You are a danger. You’d think they would not want you to be more of one. 

 _*I trust you,_ they say softly, and it makes something inside the pit of your stomach squirm horribly, and you twist it into fire, fist curling. That is something nobody should _ever_ do. You thought they were joking, that first time, before the two of you fused, but you can feel the sincerity ring true here. What have you done to them? This is a deception they should not have fallen for. 

 _*You haven’t done anything to me!_ There’s a tinge of exasperated annoyance in their voice, and they go on before you can give them an itemised list. _*You didn’t_ try _to make this happen, at least._ Oh, so they tried to do the same to you? _*That’s not what I meant! And I’m not lying!_  

They seem to realise their mental voice has risen to fever-pitch, and they abruptly shrink back in on themself, collapsing inward like a star. 

 _*Sorry, sorry._  

You feel sick. You are unsure why. You're sick of that too, at least. 

 _* I_ do _trust you, though. You’re_ trying, _like you said_. _And… maybe it would help. Not to kill people, but stop you dying a lot._  

Is that a dig at your dodging skills, again? They decline to comment. 

_*Like the Temmie armor._

_*You don’t have to._  

You look down at the corrugated cardboard covering your chest, fingers curling over it. There was no need for them to mention that. A debt is being called in because you, fool that you are, walked right into accepting it. Frisk says nothing for some time, before a repetition. 

_*You don’t have to._

_*I can’t_ make _you._

 _*Even if I could I wouldn’t._

The words are firm, but for all their claims to trust you, the sentiment is not mutual. You’re going to clear the debt, right now, because you don’t care for them hoarding it. They should be under no illusion that whatever they want to tell you will put you further in the red; you are doing it because it’s something _they_ are pushing, even if you _are_ getting the sense they are having second thoughts right now. Good. 

In any case, you don’t expect them to be able to teach you when they cannot use it themself. 

Frisk’s lack-of-expression, which has been slowly clouding over in an unwanted but persistent sullenment, greys entirely into neutrality. 

 _*Mom’s a good teacher,_ they say, and the tone is entirely unreadable.

_*You need to take your soul out,_ they continue. _*That’s the first lesson._

_*It’s supposed to make it easier._

_*Mom didn’t talk about the War much but…_

_*She said that’s what humans did before they used magic._

Your hand closes further on the cardboard, and you check your surroundings, quickly. There’s no monsters here, that you can see, but they have a way of popping out of nowhere and surprising you – possibly Frisk distracts you a little. There’s being forced to be vulnerable, and then there’s exposing vulnerability of your own accord. 

_*Yeah it’s… hard._

_*That’s why it’s a whole lesson._

_*We don’t have to do it here._

_*Or at all, Chara this isn’t about debt!_

… 

They’re right. 

You don’t. 

You stand up. Something you’ve noticed. Does it salve their conscience, to slap that on, that ‘don’t have to’? To _tell you to do the opposite._ Because then, if Chara does it, it’s Chara’s idea, isn’t it? You could have _not,_ because they said so, and so it was your choice and they had nothing to do with it. But, somehow, it’s what they wanted all along. What a coincidence! 

You dislike this backpedalling. Are they surprised?  
  
_*I…_

_*Didn’t realise._

_*I thought._

_*Sorry._

No, not sorry! Something in them seems to shift, like the snapping of a glowstick. 

_*Yes, sorry!_

_*You… you…_

_  
_ They make a small noise, indescribable, and stop. You can feel what they are, bleeding through, and it’s directionless churn and… something tamped. You shove it back, and it’s swallowed. Oh, don’t stop on your account. You’re _what,_ Frisk. 

_*It’s not important._

_*You’re right. Shouldn’t do that._

Something feels like it’s creeping up between your shoulderblades, and you have no idea what it might be. You have the distinct feeling you _have_ missed something important, something vital, knowing nothing more than that shape of it. A large, sudden shadow on the surface of water above you, a nameless dread. You start walking, avoiding looking at the Core. 

 _*It’s_ nothing _._ Frisk says softly, reassuringly, rock-sure like, silly Chara, there’s nothing there. That never happened, you must have been imagining it. Must be misremembering. 

Frisk does something they haven’t done in a while. They laugh, and it’s a clicking noise. That unspoken chill intensifies. They disappear, retreating back, that switch off shut down. 

This time… you’re not having it. You mentally chase after, and something cold and hard blocks you. You’re pushed back out with a force that surprises you. 

It’s a force you haven’t felt since it took hold of your limbs and puppeteered them. Nausea rises in the back of your throat. How could you forget? A stark reminder that at this LV, there is only Frisk’s whim preventing Frisk from doing it again. 

_*Leave me alone, Chara. Please._

_*I just… I just need a minute. It’ll be fine._

_*It really is nothing, okay!_

If they think that-

 _*Nothing to do with you._

The sentence comes out low, whip-like, vehement, and the lashing tone of it (the underlying resonance with _you’re just_ selfish) shocks you into stillness. It seems to surprise them too, the mental equivalent of slapping their hands over their mouth occurring a futile split second after. 

Is that. What is that. Fear? You’re dangerous, a demon, but _they_ hold the power. The leash.  But it doesn’t feel quite right. You’re missing something, again, and you hate it. 

 _*Not everything’s about you._  

It’s cold. It’s blunt. You have the suspicion, then, that you’re talking to Frisk _sans_ façade. This is who they are, underneath the painted on happy-go-lucky exterior. You think you prefer this Frisk. 

After all, you do so like people _being honest with you_. There’s a flash of pain in the fog, and something surging towards the surface, and you feel that you’ve gotten in trouble and also… a strange, subdued excitement? Satisfaction? 

_*I get it, okay!_

_*I’m a liar!_

_*I’m so good at manipulating people I do it even when I’m not meaning to!_

_*Every time I try to help I screw it up because that’s ^ what I do and I can’t stop!_

_*I know! I_ know! _  
*Okay??_

 _*So leave me **alone!**_

It was anticipation. The sound of the chime of LV.

 

This time you don’t chase after them, their wounded trail, a limping, and red coating your fangs. You look out across the shimmering magma.

 

You think about Alphys.

 

You think about Ebott.

 

You think about your soul, and how it feels when it’s yanked out. You cup your hands on either side of your chest, palms facing each other. Frisk shifts, a brief glance from where they’ve buried themself, and then rolls to face away again. 

Nothing happens. They were right. It’s hard. 

There’s no response. 

You sit, again. You focus on the sensation again. The feeling of being in two places at once, of how it is to move it, the strangest sense it has, and try to move it forward. 

Nothing happens. 

Alright, you’ll bite. How is this supposed to work? There’s a long, long silence. 

_*...you’re doing this ‘cause I made you_

_*It’s um. Nice of you but._

_*’Less resistant to things’ remember?_

Your mouth strains, and your spite jerks back and forth hard enough to give you whiplash, like they’ve taken it and ragdolled it to prove a point. You do not appreciate this, but then again, not everything is about you, is it? Not everything Frisk does has a point. They’re not that good at this. 

If they could control your _every_ action, the murder spree would not have happened. You know extremely well they did not want it. It served no ruse. 

 _*But-!_

Now. What is the next step? 

_*It’s, um._

_*You’re actually kind of doing the right thing already._

_*But it won’t work unless you do something else first._

You’re listening. 

 _*You can’t_ make _your soul come out._

 _*Souls are..._ There’s a silence as they search for a way to put what they’re thinking, eventually just pinging you the concept directly in its entirety. Your brain snaps to the closest, if inaccurate, translation – _the seat of emotion, things of emotion._  

 _*It’s not about what you mean or think or want, it’s about what you_ feel.

_*You, it… doesn’t feel safe, so it’s not going to come out on its own._

_*You have to get it to feel safe, like outside is where it_ wants _to be._

There’s something leaking. Warm walls and cupped white paws and blood-red highlights sharply defining things from below. Frisk hastily pulls back on it and it disappears, but the sense of rare _security_ lingers. 

It’s utterly foreign to you. This is going to be difficult. You press your hand to your chest, fingers splayed, looking down at it. _You_ don’t even know what you’re feeling half the time, how are you supposed to know what your soul is? 

_*Same thing.  
*Just… deeper._

_*Not what you think you’re feeling, decide you’re feeling, what you actually are._

_*Soul doesn’t care what you’re_ supposed _to feel_

 _*It doesn’t pretend. I think… maybe it_ can’t _._

So… the source of Id. The Jungian Shadow. All your time in the library has paid off, and you’d be lying if there wasn’t a little pride in that. A curious Frisk snips up the offered concepts to examine, and hedges, a hand rocked from side to side, making a face.  
  
_*Maybe???  
*But it’s not… separate, like that, I don’t think._

 _*It’s just you._

The culmination of your being, as _their brother_ put it. 

They nod, expression impassive. You exhale. 

Well, they’ve proven their ability to toy with your emotions, why not put that to use?  
  
_*Um._

 _*You_ want _me to… ?_

 _*I don’t think it works that way._ -_-

 _*And would it work if you know that’s what I’m doing?_

You’d say they’ve gotten very good at jumping that hurdle, if even after rattling off their little list it’s been effective. They wince. They can try, at least. This is overt permission, for once. 

_*…_

_*How badly do you want this, Chara?_

That’s boding well already. 

_*You keep saying you’re the most dangerous thing here, and it’s true._

_*You’ve… killed every single monster, once._

_*You can have as many tries as you need._

_*There’s nothing to fear._

You still resent the idea that you _fear_ things. Caution is not fear. Being on high alert almost constantly is not fear. But you can feel the words soaking in like warm water into a sponge. They’re true, they have the taste of truth. 

You try again, focusing on the feel of it in your chest. Nothing. It seems your soul is as stubborn as you are. You can almost _feel_ Frisk discarding and switching tactics. 

_*Maybe… try thinking of a place you felt the most safe?_

_*Try imagining here’s there._

The ‘most safe’, you note. Not ‘safe’. You know not to pry. 

You think of your library. The dark wooden banisters of the stairs, once-polished by hands. The flickering blue terminals downstairs and once-brightly-coloured beanbags juxtaposed with the same dark wood shelves staffed with tomes upon tomes, some old and falling apart, hardback and paperback jumbled together. You think about the sound of rain on the roof of it. 

You think of the single librarian on staff, and how you never spoke to each other or looked at each other, and how he very obviously jangled the keys when he was just about to close up for real. 

You think about your dark, windowless corner, where the books were dull and dry enough that no one ever went (not that many used the small building as it was), where you could drag a beanbag up the stairs and to it and watch the doors through the railings without being seen. You fell asleep there once, to your horror. You wonder if the half-nibbled chocolate bar hidden behind a treatise on 13th century Germany is still there. 

Your soul doesn’t so much as rattle. You’re not surprised. You can imagine it as hard as you like; you know too well you’re not there. The heat doesn’t make it any easier. 

Frisk goes for another option. 

_*If you do get hurt, it’s on your terms._

_*You can control it._

_*Even if it’s someone else doing it, you can choose when it stops and starts and how much._

You pull your shirt sleeves up over your hands and stop absently rubbing your inner arm on your knee. You are admittedly very curious as to what you could do to your own soul. Or if you would just go through it. 

_*I could hold mine, sometimes._

_*But it… wouldn’t let me hurt it._

_*I still don’t know why._

Determination, perhaps. This time, there _is_ movement, but it doesn’t even clear the skin before it’s snapped back. Trying again yields little better. Frustration mounts. 

_*I’m.._

_*I can’t think of anything else._

_*Sorry._

You exhale, and lean back onto your elbows. That’s when you can feel something… almost shift. You don’t let it pass by. You push forward, as if directing it in battle, and red shines out in front of you. Frisk becomes shot through with surprise and elation, giving the feeling of leaning over and on your shoulder to look. 

_*You did it!_

_*What was it?_

You have no idea. Perhaps it simply took time for their efforts to work. You briefly watch the red heart float there, bobbing slightly in time with your heartbeat, and reach for it, expecting to pass through like before. 

It’s solid. 

You rub a thumb along one curve. It feels like smooth glass, but there’s an odd surface element, like you’re clearing away nylon static as you would a layer of dust or frost. You think about what would happen if you applied increasing pressure, if it’s as brittle as it’s glasslike nature would suggest, and when you try, _then_ you go right through it. You see what Frisk meant now.

 

 _*’Cept mine liked to move out of the way, when it could_ , they comment. Rising up from them like twists of smoke is… nostalgia, you think, and a deep pain that gets hidden the moment you observe it. But also a strange tranquillity, as they observe it through your eyes. You’re not sure you like it. You remember that they thought it was theirs. 

Since it’s here, you might as well find out. You bring your soul up to your face, and lick it. This seems to jolt Frisk out of whatever was occurring. 

_*Hgn._

_*Ew, Chara!_

They sound more playful than critical. 

 _*What’s it taste like?_  

Tastes like licking a windowpane that’s also a battery, to be honest. The dual sensation is _bizarre._ It definitely feels like something that shouldn’t be happening ever, but in a mundane, harmless way, like you’ve managed to lick your own elbow somehow.

 

All in all, not the best cake flavour, you decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that for a lot of fics there's the 'Hotland curse'. Many peter out at Snowdin or Waterfall and never actually make it to Hotland. With this chapter, WH has finally broken it!
> 
> And we get to see Alphys. Hi Alphys!
> 
> Thanks for your patience, guys. ^^

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought I'd have some fun with the whole "Chara takes over in Genocide, Frisk gets more and more non-existent, until something happens near the end that allows for a reset to happen and then things get done right" thing.
> 
> (Disclaimer: 123seven3 also has a Redswap fic which he wrote first and which you should check out.)
> 
> My tumblr is scrollingdown if you want to chat about the fic, Undertale, or anything in general!


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